


Nova Prospekt

by BootsnBlossoms, Kryptaria



Category: James Bond (Craig movies), James Bond (Movies), James Bond - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Different First Meeting, Ferrets, First Meetings, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, M/M, Romance, Urban Exploration, hackerspace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-27
Updated: 2013-05-10
Packaged: 2017-12-09 17:47:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 15
Words: 71,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/776253
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BootsnBlossoms/pseuds/BootsnBlossoms, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kryptaria/pseuds/Kryptaria
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When a fire leaves best mates James Bond and Alec Trevelyan living at a hotel, Bond joins the Nova Prospekt hackerspace in hopes of finding not just a workshop but a place to meet and collaborate with brilliant, creative, and innovative thinkers. He never expects the hackerspace's resident genius, a young man who calls himself Q, to so thoroughly capture his interest — and Alec's.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is dedicated to all those who contributed to our Safe Alliance fundraiser. Together, we raised over $1100 for [Safe Alliance!](http://www.safealliance.org/get-involved/donate/)
> 
> Thank you, fandom, for all that you've done!

**Friday, 4 January 2013**

Halfway up the road was a terrible location for a coffee shop. The neighbourhood was quiet and residential, and once, before big box stores, the shops lining the street had prospered. The corner grocer. The butcher. The chemist. The DIY store across from the pub. And Siegel's Cafe, right next door to the DIY store.

Only now, the corner was occupied with a Tesco’s Express and the chemist had been bought out by a chain and then closed. The pub was still there, but the DIY store was long since out of business, its glass window front filled in with bricks to match the exterior wall of the building. Only the door remained, side-by-side with what had been the door to Siegel’s Cafe. The sign on the door was now a chalkboard bearing a very different name.

“Nova Prospekt?” the rather ancient Alan Siegel asked, clucking his tongue. He was over eighty, stooped and rail-thin, but he was an artist with pastries. “That’s not even a real name.”

“Trust me, Mr Siegel. It will do well enough.”

And it did, though perhaps not with the clients that Siegel had once had. Instead of ageing couples out for a morning walk, the edgy new decor helped lure in a younger crowd. Siegel added gluten-free, whole wheat, and organic berry muffins to his repertoire in the mornings, and he hired a girl with blue hair and facial piercings to run the gleaming silver monstrosity of an espresso machine the new owner had purchased to replace the old machine Siegel had cobbled together fifty years earlier.

After two weeks, Siegel had to hire two more people, and he’d extended the shop hours into the night. He hired a night manager as well, a recent business school graduate who’d worked in coffee shops for eight years.

At the end of the month, Siegel offered to show the books to the new owner, who instead handed over a business card for an accounting firm. “They’ll take care of all of that,” he said. “Your only obligation is to see to the pastries and soups now, Mr Siegel. You should spend time with your grandchildren.”

“I don’t know how you did it,” Siegel said with faint, befuddled shake of his head. “It used to be, six o’clock comes up, and I could close for the night. Now, it’s our busiest time.”

The new owner smiled, and went back next door, to what had been the old DIY store and now was something... _more_.

 

~~~

 

“Just because I forgot to take the pan off the hob doesn’t mean I have to carry your shit.” Alec Trevelyan grunted with the effort of lifting a brand new bench grinder, still in the box, out of the boot of his Maserati. “Christ, did you have to buy the heaviest one they had?”

“It’s not the act of forgetting to take the pan off the hob that has you carrying boxes, Alec,” James Bond said, grabbing his rucksack before lazily leaning against the door of the car, watching dispassionately. “In fact, in the scheme of all the things that had to happen in perfect, destructive order to mean we are now homeless, that’s just one of the many fascinating details. First was the act of cooking to impress a girl — stupid idea number one.” Bond tapped his pockets, looking for his cigarettes. If he was going to have to listen to this all afternoon, he’d need the calming effect of nicotine. “Then there was making out with the girl in the kitchen. Stupid, _unsanitary_ idea number two. Then, moving into the bedroom, which, normally, I would approve of. But for the fire. The _fire_ , Alec.”

“You’re the one who wanted to live in a house and not a bloody flat with a proper sprinkler system. Get the boot, will you?” he added as he got the bench grinder clear. He huffed out a breath and blinked at the coffee shop. It was an industrial-looking place with the name on a chalkboard. Then he looked at the next door over, painted grey and solidly built. No sign indicated the purpose; no number showed the address. “This is the right place, isn’t it?”

Bond finally found his rather crumpled pack of cigarettes, but with a sigh tucked them back into his jeans pocket. There was absolutely no smoking allowed in hackerspaces in his experience — geeks with shiny toys and big insurance policies tended to have overly sensitive fire alarms. Not that Bond had anything against that at the moment.

He scanned the building, sparing only a brief glance at the coffee shop next door. _Nova Prospekt_. This was the place. It was one of the best hackerspaces in London, supposedly managed by an actual honest-to-god genius who never failed to lend assistance when asked.

“This is it.” He turned his attention back to Alec. “Oh, but we were just getting to the best part. The part where your companion for the evening actually _smelled_ the bloody smoke, tried to get you to check, and you just laughed and told her it was me smoking.” Bond straightened from the car and took a few steps forward, scanning the building for exits and potential weak spots in case of an attack. Hackerspaces could hold millions of quid worth of high-tech equipment; Bond was honestly surprised more _weren’t_ burgled. “Melting teflon smells nothing like cigarettes, Alec.”

“Ah. Melting teflon is toxic. I was affected. I could have _died_ ,” Alec said, though the plaintive look was somewhat strained by his effort to carry the bench grinder to the unmarked door. He was strong, but the box was unwieldy and lacked proper handles.

“Yes, well, given that I’m the recipient of your life insurance policy, and would have had a new bloody house by now because of it, you shouldn’t try pushing that button too hard,” Bond warned with false severity. He jogged up to the door and tested the handle — true to the website’s claim, the open door policy meant that he was able to open it without waiting for someone to unlock it for him. He’d already purchased his membership, but needed to pick up his key. He turned to grin at Alec, holding the door open in a mockery of gentlemanly behaviour.

Alec huffed and hauled the bench grinder into what used to be the front end of a store. The front display shelf, once set against a street front window, had been turned into a long bench seat. Mismatched tables, sturdily built, ran the length of the space. One table was covered with a magpie’s collection of electronics components; three people sat at the table, working on individual projects.

A door on the cafe side of the workshop had a chalkboard listing the cafe’s hours and the soup of the day. A yellow warning sign reminded people to turn off their soldering irons and machinery before leaving the area.

Three people were currently present in the front room. All three turned to look Alec and Bond over. Then one tipped his chair back and bellowed, _“Q!”_

Alec brought the bench grinder to the end of the table. He set it down loudly; the table didn’t even shake. Bond hefted the rucksack again and scanned the projects he could see lying around. In his experience, the quality of the space was incredibly dependent on the minds of the space’s most frequent users — USB toaster projects and lava lamps run off Bluetooth meant dull spaces. Mods in general meant dull spaces, he’d decided years ago; if the geeks that ran the place didn’t have enough imagination to start original projects, it wasn’t worth the effort of membership.

Well, unless the tools were amazing, of course. He was hopeful about this space, at least, based on the conversation he’d had with one of the directors. She’d told him that their bench grinder was MIA, but it might’ve been used in the robot they’d built to cut a hole in the floor.

There was a door in the back, propped open with a welded iron piece made of scrap metal. Beyond was a machine shop and a roll-up garage door, half-open.

The man who appeared in the machine room doorway looked like he’d been on the losing end of a fight with a furnace. Soot covered his bare hands, his shirt, and his face. It might have coated his hair as well, though it was impossible to tell, with the nest of dark strands sticking up every possible way. Only his eyes were clean, with a faint line from plastic safety goggles still imprinted on his skin. The goggles were pushed up onto his dirty forehead, and as he looked towards the front of the workshop, he took a pair of glasses from where they hung at the back of his T-shirt and put them on.

His eyes went from Alec to Bond to the bench grinder, and he grinned. “This way,” he said, and ducked back into the back room.

“See, now that’s an example for you, Alec,” Bond said with a smirk. “If you’re going to play with fire, at least wear protective eyewear.” He glanced at the grinder then back at Alec before turning to follow the sooty creature that was apparently Q.

Alec’s sigh was deep and heartfelt, but not for Bond’s benefit; his eyes were fixed on the girl sitting across the table from where he’d dumped the bench grinder. She was chewing on a blue and white striped wire as she snipped pieces off a circuit board. Under her safety glasses, her eyes were a very bright green, almost the exact shade of Alec’s.

Before Alec could comment — because Bond _knew_ Alec better than he knew anyone else on the planet — Bond elbowed him and said, “Let’s get this set up.”

Alec sighed again, though this time it wasn’t contrived. He picked up the bench grinder and hauled it after Bond, heading for the back room.

The front room was floored in lino bearing the scars of long display shelves. The back floor had been stripped down to the concrete some time in the last couple of months, Bond guessed, which matched when this particular space had opened. A large area off to the right, built into the corner, had been stocked with an array of mismatched flat panel monitors and two CRTs, one of which Bond could swear was actually hooked up to an Apple //e. He nearly went that way, except the soot-covered Q was waiting to the left.

He was standing at the edge of a square pit cut into the floor with a pile of what looked like coal beside it, which explained at least some of the soot. He lifted his hand as if to touch his face, and then hesitated, wrinkling his nose at the black dust covering his skin. “James and ‘guest’?” he asked, wiping his hand on his jeans — possibly blue, possibly black, though by now, the original colour was a moot point. Bond could barely see the white outline of a Dalek on his mottled black and blue T-shirt.

“I’m James,” he said casually, reaching forward to shake Q’s hand. As far as substances on skin that might bother Bond, soot absolutely wasn’t one of them. Well, unless it was from the crumbled ruins of his former home, of course. “And that’s Alec,” he said, stabbing a thumb in Alec’s direction. “We come bearing gifts.”

Alec pointedly set down the bench grinder with a huff. “Or _I_ do, at any rate.”

Q’s grin was brilliant even without the contrast of soot on his cheeks and jaw. “So I see,” he said, shaking their hands. “Um, set it up where you’d like. Power points are mostly overhead — the ones in the wall are a bit dodgy. You’re doing fabrication?”

James smiled noncommittally. He had several projects in mind — not the least of which was a larger home control system based on Arduino technology — but he didn’t like to commit lest he get anyone actually interested in his project. The nature of his work at MI6 meant that he was gone for long stretches at a time, which tended to irritate people who wanted to contribute to anything interesting. “The project I have in mind right now is replacing my lockpicking set that got damaged beyond repair” — he shot a glare at Alec — “in a fire.”

“ _Ours_ were. He’ll be making two sets,” Alec added quickly.

“Easy enough,” Q answered, sounding amused. “We also have a lockpicking club the first and third Tuesday night of every month. If there’s enough interest, we’ll bump it up to once a week. Oh, you got a storage locker, didn’t you?” he asked, patting at his hips. He stuck one hand into the tight pocket of his jeans and pulled out a key ring. Without waiting for an answer, he hopped over the corner of the hole in the floor. “Watch your step,” he warned as he headed directly for a bank of storage lockers that looked like they’d been scavenged from a bus station.

“I travel on business a good deal, so I prefer to store works-in-progress onsite,” Bond answered, following Q. The hole in the floor was interesting enough to distract from the frankly obscenely tight jeans that Q was wearing, and Bond glanced into the darkness as he walked past it. “May I ask?”

Q’s grin reappeared. “Well, it’s apparently an old coal cellar, but we have no idea how deep it goes. I tracked it from the manual lift that used to be right above.” He pointed up at the high ceiling. “The lift chute goes all the way to the roof.”

Bond looked up curiously, though he felt faintly uneasy about the idea of a potentially open access point to the building that no one had mapped or tried to investigate. He was sadly familiar with the underground networks of very old cities, and was fully aware that just because it might be complicated and distasteful to scale up the chute from a tunnel underground, it didn’t mean it was impossible. He cast a wary glance at it as he passed, and looked back at Alec with a raised eyebrow.

Alec’s eyes were hard and alert; he gave a minute nod, gaze tracing over the garage and back door before he turned his attention back to the pit in the floor.

“We have a few open lockers. Top, middle, or bottom?” Q asked, sorting through the keys on the ring.

“Bottom, please,” Bond asked. Dust and dirt and the occasional accidental kick could be problems, but bottom lockers were always much less likely to be broken into than the top and middle ones. “I also need a key to the front door,” he reminded Q.

“Shit. Right. Sorry. We didn’t expect to get all the way through the cement today,” he apologised, giving Bond an embarrassed grin. He worked one of the keys off the ring and asked, “Can you do copies? We have a cutting machine. It’s a bit old, but it came with blanks.”

Bond looked over at Alec. “You don’t mind waiting, do you?” he asked, though it was more of a nod to politeness rather than an actual request.

“Not at all. Were you _down there_?” Alec asked, looking over as Q led Bond to a very old-looking key-cutting machine.

“Yes. I think we cut in the wrong place, though. I was still clearing out coal to try and find open space,” Q answered. He peeled another key off, used it to tap the sign hanging on the machine, and then handed the key to Bond. “Before you leave, make sure to test the copy.”

The sign, Bond noted, read: _If you skip the safety glasses, Cthulhu gets your soul. Sacrifices third Thursday of every month._

Bond took the keys and smiled at Q. He’d brought his own safety glasses; they were old and worn and not expensive, but they’d got Bond through everything from sandstorms in the Iraqi desert to a munitions project that had gone horribly, explosively wrong. He had to replace the lenses frequently, but he was attached to them. Fortunately, they’d been in his storage locker at MI6 and not in the house when Alec had burned it down.

“I’ll return the key in a moment,” he said as he put on the glasses. He dropped the rucksack to the floor before turning his focus to the machine.

Q nodded, lurking close by just long enough to make certain Bond wasn’t about to cut off a finger or — more importantly — blow up the machine. Then he turned and headed right back to the hole in the floor.

It had been some time since Bond had needed to copy keys, but he’d mastered stranger skills since joining the Navy, and MI6 had only served to hone those skills. He cut just one, though he resolved to make a second copy when he had some time alone, just in case. Not that he couldn’t just pick the locks to the front door.

When he finished and shut down the machine, Alec drifted over. He casually leaned against the side of the machine and spoke softly: “It _does_ look like they cut in on top of a pile of coal. Could be a closed-off cellar...”

“Or it _could_ be a direct route to the lair of Cthulhu himself?” Bond asked with a wry smile. He tugged the safety glasses down to rest around his neck and blew on the key to dislodge some of the metal dust that still clung to it. “They seem fairly determined. I’ll keep an eye on it.”

Alec nodded, smiling wryly. “Or we’re just a couple of paranoid old bastards,” he murmured. “You going to stay a while? There’s a pub across the way. I could do with a pint.”

“ _Two_ sets, Alec? Might take me longer than a pint,” Bond said with a raised eyebrow. He leaned down to grab his rucksack and looked around

“You want to make the picks now?” Alec sighed and patted Bond’s shoulder. Hard. “A pint and dinner, then. Text me when you’re ready to go.”

“Thanks,” Bond replied, resisting the urge to ask for Alec’s keys. The last thing he needed was to be left in a trendy area dominated by the young colourfully-haired and well-pierced Soho crowds if Alec found a date. But the idea of going back to the cold, impersonal hotel room alone made Bond want to pick a fight just to make the night interesting. Better to choose the type of stress-relief that ended with physical proof of time well-invested. “See you in a couple hours.”

Alec grinned and raised his voice, shouting, “Q!”

Bond saw that Q was sprawled belly-down on the floor by the hole. He twisted around with the sort of grace Bond had learned to associate with bored housewives who took yoga or martial artists. “Something wrong?” Q called back. He’d put his glasses aside and was wearing his goggles again.

“Keep an eye on James. He gets in trouble if left unsupervised.” Alec smirked at Bond, waved to Q, and sauntered out.

Q laughed, watching Alec leave before he gave Bond a warm, friendly smile. Then he flopped back down on his belly and slithered headfirst back into the hole, pulling the coal out of the way like a dog trying to bury a bone.

“Going to dislocate an arm that way,” Bond chuckled to himself.

Q’s voice was muffled as he answered, “I just need the space so the cam-rover can get in there.”

Well, apparently Q had both exceptional hearing and the ability to focus on more than one thing at a time. That was interesting. “Would you like help?” he asked, turning to watch. Q’s grace was quite captivating, and Bond didn’t bother to hide his appreciative evaluation of Q’s wiry musculature.

“You’ll get filthy,” Q warned as he hauled out another couple of pieces of heavy coal. He was running out of room to stack them. “Though there should be something you can use to rake the coal away from the hole and make room for a fresh stack, if you don’t mind. I think Firebird has some old garden tools in the back corner there, beyond the servers.”

“Perhaps it’s best if I do the excavating for a while, and you move the coal. Give yourself a chance to rest,” Bond suggested, walking over to the hole. He took off his jacket and set both it and his rucksack down, away from the coal. Knowing that he was going to be spending some quality time in the machine shop, he’d worn old, stained jeans and a thick black cotton jumper that, despite the burns along the sleeves and chest, was still his best defence against flying bits of solder and other hot metal fragments. He didn’t mind getting dirty in these clothes, and it was certainly preferable to watching Q dislocate his shoulder.

Q rolled onto his back and looked up through his fringe. “You signed the insurance waiver? Sorry, but I have to ask.”

Bond looked down at him, amused. “Of course.” He’d sent an email copy the day he signed up for his membership, knowing how picky the directors could be about such things. He held out a hand to Q, resisting the urge to bend and haul Q up by his shoulders in an effort to avoid putting any more strain on Q’s joints.

Q grinned and clasped Bond’s forearm, letting Bond help him to his feet. He weighed so little that Bond probably could have lifted him with one arm, and he all but bounced up onto his toes. “I’ll get the rake.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Friday, 4 January 2013**

The coal cellar discovery three days ago had been an interesting diversion. Breaking through the machine shop floor had been a group event, putting Q in mind of explorers sending cam-bots up into the shafts of the Great Pyramid at Giza. But then, a scheduling conflict had left Q alone, so he’d thought to clear the way for further exploration. The offer of help — especially from the new guy with the uninterested husband — was a godsend.

James was as strong as he looked, and he cleared out the coal almost faster than Q could rake it away. Already a corner of his mind was wondering what they could actually do with the coal. Immediately he got distracted by the potential not just for fire but for methane gas production, but did they _need_ methane gas?

More to the point, did _anyone_ , at least on a hobby level? He’d have to put out a call for ideas, maybe make it into a contest. That or he could sell it, he supposed, though he really didn’t need the money.

Technically, he didn’t even need the dues collected from the members, nor did he need the equipment and consumables donations. He just preferred to avoid drawing attention. As it was, a couple of people had noticed him coming and going from one of the flats upstairs. He’d become more careful about that lately, though.

Once James had gone as far as was really safe, Q said, “Let me get down there and — headlamp, right.” He diverted from the hole, abandoning the rake, and tried to remember what he’d done with his headlamp. Not in his locker... He went to the computer area instead, vaguely recalling using it for a build after the halogen over one of the tables had died.

A minute later, excitement singing through him, he put on the headlamp and switched it to full brightness. He put on his goggles and asked, “See anything down there?”

“A structural design that indicates this was more than just a coal cellar,” James said in a low voice. He shuffled on his stomach as he twisted to get a better look.

Q laid down next to him and inched forward. The headlamp beam swept over the coal, but also picked out an open space. “Beautiful,” he said excitedly, crawling carefully forward, inching down into the hole. The coal was bitingly rough on his hands and forearms, adding to the array of scratches already there.

“Easy there, Professor Challenger,” James said in low voice, catching the back of Q’s blue jeans. “If you fall in there, I can almost guarantee it will be deeply unpleasant.”

“I should be fine,” Q insisted with a little laugh. He pushed a few more pieces of coal out of the way, feeling a momentary apprehension that he might end up starting an avalanche. “It can’t be _that_ deep.” Then, to prove his theory, he deliberately shoved a piece of coal down the pile, and listened with satisfaction as it bounced and came to a halt not too far away at all. “See?”

James didn’t let go, however. “All that proves is that it landed on _something_ , Q. You have no concept of what that something is, nor what its structural integrity might be. It could be the floor of what was formerly a lift shaft, full of rusted-out and sharp edged machinery. Or the unstable roof of an old Underground tunnel. Perhaps even a door to hell, for all you know.” Bond’s voice was tense but amused. “Don’t you think some safety precautions are in order?”

Q considered arguing; if the weight of all that coal hadn’t caused a collapse, surely _his_ weight wouldn’t. But James did have a point. “Well, that’s why we have bots,” he conceded, and let James help him crawl backwards and up out of the hole. He took a deep breath, coughed at the coal dust, and bellowed, _“I need a mini-camera!”_

 _“On it!”_ came the answering yell from up front.

“You don’t happen to have an architectural drawing of this building or what’s underneath it, do you?” James asked, standing and brushing himself off. “It’s not important to know just what the hole is or how deep it goes, but what it might be connected to.”

“Tunnels would be _fantastic_ ,” Q said, rolling onto his back. He exchanged his goggles for his glasses, squinted up at the overhead lights, and arched his back to stretch. Tunnels _went places_. If he had a tunnel entrance in his building, _he_ could go places. Explore.

Bond stood over him, smiling crookedly. “You were the type of boy who liked pirate adventure novels, weren’t you?” He nudged Q’s ankle with his foot in an apparent attempt to get his attention. “I hope you’re fully aware of how dangerous the exploration of tunnels can be, and will take appropriate steps to keep yourself safe.”

“I read programming manuals,” Q said distractedly. He lifted his head and grinned up at James. “Besides, I’ll send a bot in first. It’ll be fine.” He got up to his feet — James helped halfway — and went to the robotics pen behind the computers.

Half the robotics work took place up front, where circuit boards, sensor arrays, and controls were assembled. The rest happened back here, between the machine shop for the bodies and the computers for the actual coding. For this, though, he only needed a big, durable RC truck with a retrieval line. Anything more sophisticated would have to wait at least a little while.

“Heads up!” came the call from the doorway, and Q turned in time to see James catch a camera thrown his way.

“Good reflexes,” Q approved, and went to find batteries for the truck. Most of them were stored up front, but he kept a few in the back for emergency robotics testing. “Could you grab a line? Ropes are by the lockers.”

James walked over to the lockers and crouched to start sorting through the several types of rope that lay in a pile on the floor. “Don’t you have _anything_ likely to withstand...” he muttered, until he pulled a bright blue braided coil from the pile. “This should do the trick.”

Q snapped the batteries into the truck and the remote control. He set the truck down and gave it a test drive, sending it right to James. “Line to the back axle,” he said, thinking of camera mounting. Then, because James was the new guy and probably had a boring life, he offered, “You can mount the camera if you want, too. Just don’t cover the antenna.”

James cast an amused glance Q’s way. “Oh, can I?” he asked with a smirk. He wrapped the rope three times around the back axle, leaving himself a generous measure of slack. Then with quick, efficient, and apparently well-practised movements, he tied a series of knots that would be impossible for the RC to break free from unless the rope was cut.

“Climbing or —” Q snapped his mouth shut before asking _bondage_ , and then his brain stalled, because he couldn’t think of any other conventional use for rope. He finally blurted, “Hanging things?” and then hoped James didn’t think he meant _people_.

“Something like that,” James replied without looking up. He took the other end of the rope and lashed it to the nearest support beam with the same meticulous knot-work. “It’s a short length of rope,” he explained. “Wouldn’t want it to slip from our hands.”

Overcautious, but that was better than the alternative. Q smiled approvingly and went to where he’d dumped his jacket on the floor near the hole. He fished through the pockets to find his tablet computer and then sat down on the floor, opening the network interface. “How did you attach the camera?” he asked without looking up, since James was still holding the truck.

“Duct tape,” James said with perfect calm.

“Oh, good. You found it,” Q said, relieved. He _hated_ when new people asked where the duct tape was. As if it wasn’t _everywhere_? He started searching on the network for the camera.

James burst out into a sudden fit of laughter, staring at him. “I think I like you, Q,” he said, grinning, looking back down at the car. When Q looked over, he saw that Bond had actually removed the plastic cover from the car (keeping the attaching pins in their holes) and was currently screwing the camera’s tripod mount to the caging, with a piece of wired mesh in between. Then he wrapped wire through the mesh and over the mount for extra security.

Q blinked in surprise, and then grinned, pleased. The initial application assessment for ‘Bond, James’ had been very unremarkable, but he’d paid at the highest level _and_ offered a new bench grinder, so there was no reason at all to deny the application. Not that he would have, but still.

Besides, he wasn’t asking what the ‘Q’ stood for. That got him extra points.

“Aha,” he said as the camera finally showed up on the network. “We’re up. Oh” — he pulled off the headlamp, which he’d forgotten was still powered up, and tossed it to James — “can you mount that to the front? We may as well have light for the camera, since it’s not infrared. And I hope to hell that nothing with body heat is down there.”

James frowned as he looked down at the headlamp, and his hand twitched to his side in a subtle movement Q barely caught. Then James was attaching the headlamp to the car, securing it behind the front metal bumper, where the bars would obscure the light slightly but would ensure that it wouldn’t get dislodged. He secured it with wire, using tools and materials from his rucksack.

Q tested the camera controls — strictly zoom and focus, but every little bit helped. “I’ve always wanted to do this for real,” he admitted. “Like at the pyramids, only with less tourism.”

“An out-of-the-box RC truck probably isn’t your best bet for this sort of work, especially one that big. Something smaller, with a lighter frame, lower to the ground, with bigger tyres might be worth the build if you have the time,” James said, sitting on the floor next to Q. “If you plan to make a habit of this, that is.”

“We’ve got a couple in the planning or build stages now.” Q tipped his head back enough to see James through his fringe. “Do you do robotics?”

“Are you mapping the car’s movements, or just looking?” James asked. He kept his eyes on the screen. “The rope is too short for the car to get very far.”

Regretfully, Q shook his head. “I have nothing —” He cut off and tipped his head. He had mobile phones. “But that precision —” Unless he built an array himself. GPS? Too much power, too small a package, unless he used a relay. Distance to relay, three axes...

James nudged him lightly. “You’re extremely distractible, aren’t you?”

“Sorry.” He felt himself flush; he _tried_ not to do that in front of people who didn’t know him. At least he hadn’t _said_ most of that out loud. Nothing was more disruptive than a poorly timed helpful suggestion — or, worse, a baffled ‘What?’

“Don’t be. I’m sure the ideas flying lightning fast under that hair of yours are worth the attention,” James said with a small smile.

Q smiled a bit tensely and looked back down at the tablet. That was perilously close to flirtatious, and whatever was going on between James and Alec, Q was _not_ going to get caught between them — as interesting as a tiny part of him thought it could be. More likely, if James was flirting, then there was something wrong, and Q wasn’t about to be _the other guy_. Especially not given Alec’s sheer size.

“Ready to see what’s down there?” he asked, setting up a program to record the camera feed, rather than just viewing it live.

James leaned forward and set the car down on the coal, taking hold of the rope. “I’ll use this to keep it stable on the way down,” he offered.

Q nodded, his smile returning. “Perfect.” He wedged the tablet between his knee and a pile of coal, where both he and James could see it. Then he picked up the remote and started the car moving forward. The ride was shaky, but together they managed to keep the car moving slowly enough that it didn’t tip or skid.

“Careful, now,” he warned as the front end of the truck tipped forward, and James’ hand clenched on the rope. “We’re at a precipice.”

“Got it,” James assured him, and Q pressed the car forward as James eased up his grip of the rope.

The camera’s view went wild for a moment as the truck lost its orientation. It bounced and jolted and landed hard on something. Both Q and James bent close to the tablet screen. There were gridlines — only a few visible, so either they were big, close-up, or both. Though the camera was colour, there was apparently no colour to be had, besides a thick coating of black coal-dust over what might be a brown or grey surface. “It looks —”

“Cobblestone,” James said at once. He held out both hands, orienting one at a visible intersection of the gridlines, the other up above the tablet. “Probably standard in size. The camera’s back twelve centimetres, and look at the angle of the light. It’s resting on the front bumper and front tyres.”

The description slotted into place with the visual, and Q realised with some surprise that he was absolutely correct. “Very good eye,” he approved, wondering if James was good at those visual puzzles involving macro-photography. “So if it’s cobblestone, then it’s probably an original coal cellar.” His fingers twitched on the remote control for the car. “Give it a twitch, and let’s see if we can get it righted. Drive around a bit, see what else is there.”

With his eyes on the camera, James gave the rope a few careful tugs. The car resisted at first, but eventually it caved to James’ persistence. It rolled and flipped upright, settling on the tyres quickly. James shot a triumphant grin at Q.

Grinning back, Q started the car in a slow, careful turn, with James inching forward to hold up the retrieval rope to keep it from fouling. “Wish I had the other bot. It has independent wheel drive for on-the-spot turns —” He cut off and twitched the car back a bit, leaning in towards the tablet. “Oh, what are _you_ , lovely?” he breathed, heart skipping when he saw a door. It looked small and metallic, possibly involved in coal delivery or distribution, and every cell in his body twitched with the urge to crawl down there himself and explore.

“Well, that solves the question of whether it’s attached to the Underground,” James said, peering over Q’s shoulder. “You’ll need a map — or more likely several — safety gear, and rappelling gear before you even _think_ about it.”

“Can’t get a map without sending down a cartographer,” Q countered logically. “I have the building blueprints, but they’re far from complete. But the block — Oh, _historical_ maps would show that. Can you get the bot?” he asked, scrambling to his feet; the controller fell onto the coal pile. Without waiting for an answer, he rushed over to the caged metal ladder that led up to what had once been an office overlooking the warehouse. It had long since been converted to a hallway access for the first storey, which was used in part for storage; Q also used it as a more convenient access to the upper levels of the building, rather than going out to the main door.

He had the plans in his office, awaiting the chance to get them scanned in. It was on his to-do list, but had never been a priority, until now. With the right plans, he could build a 3D model and project just how far the basement would go.

 

~~~

 

Bond watched Q race up the ladder with a grin that may very well have approached fondness. He didn’t know Q at all yet, but he knew — and deeply appreciated — the type: inquisitive, persistent, spacey, creative, and intelligent. There weren’t enough people in the world like Q, diving headlong into adventures and projects, and when Bond managed to come across one, he tended to view them with a guarded protectiveness. That sort of innocent delight was far, far too easily squashed by the demands of a cold world that would try its best to suck them into corporate hell.

Bond looked back down at the tablet with the camera feed, then at the controller Q had dropped in his mad dash to get to... wherever he was going. He didn’t want to haul the heavy truck up by the rope unless necessary; the camera’s mounting was good but not perfect, and a sharp impact could cause damage.

From upstairs, he heard a door crash closed, though Q didn’t immediately return. The ladder looked like it might have once led to a catwalk; the drywall at the top of the ladder was new, still covered with tape and spackle. Just how much of the building did this hackerspace have? Judging by the connecting door to the coffee shop, they probably had a deal with the building owner.

With a combination of careful manoeuvring and gentle tugs on the rope, Bond worked the truck safely back out of the hole. Once it was back at his feet, he busied himself with removing the camera and headlamp. The camera he left next to Q’s tablet. So far, he was enjoying the improvisational, solution-focused attitude that hopefully characterised the whole hackerspace and not just one director. Being here made Bond feel like he was out in the field, only without the danger that someone would shoot him at any moment. While waiting for Q, he leaned against the wall and started coiling the rope.

Q came down the ladder a few minutes later, with a long cardboard tube stuck under one arm, getting in his way as he climbed. When he was three feet from the floor, he let go and pushed back, landing in a crouch. Immediately he turned, eyes flicking over Bond, the rope, and the dig site.

“Thanks,” he said, and tipped his head in invitation as he headed for the doorway to the front room.

“You’re welcome,” Bond answered with amusement. A quick glance at the tube and the chicken-scratch on the end cap confirmed that Q had probably found one of the historical maps he had mentioned. He felt a flush of unease at the thought; while he didn’t have anything against dark, small spaces, he did have a particular desire to not get lost in them. Bond knew enough about the London Underground to know that it was an absolute mess; there wasn’t a map in the world that was able to trace what hundreds of years of human engineering had wrought. And the worst part? GPS and cellular traces didn’t work underground.

Q uncapped the tube and slid out a messy stack of large blueprint-sized papers. The heavy thump drew attention from the three people doing component work at the other table, though none of them came over. Bond had the feeling that Q was a hurricane that blew in and out with enough frequency that people grew accustomed to his manic phases. He just hoped there wasn’t a corresponding low period.

A shove unrolled the stack of papers, and then Q started turning them aside. Bond caught glimpses of the building’s four storeys; he assumed the upper two floors were residential flats, with the first storey given over to storage — it was connected to the hackerspace, after all — and possibly another residence. The ground floor, of course, was split between the hackerspace and the cafe.

The stack of blueprints traced back through three iterations of the building’s life, all the way to a crumbling, hard-edged page with hand-drawn lines cataloguing repairs after the London Blitz. “The original survey — the oldest I have,” Q explained, turning the page aside more gently now. “Aha. Here, ground level...”

Bond looked over the map, quickly cataloguing the lines and measurements, finding that they matched up to the estimations he’d made for size when he first had seen the building. He located the lift and pointed it out, gently tracing a finger down to the coal shaft. “There it is. I’m surprised you didn’t pull this out when you first discovered the shaft.”

“Well, that _is_ why I decided to cut through the floor there,” Q said, flashing him a grin like a magnesium flare. “I suspected something was below. It’s always nice to be proven right. But there isn’t a damned thing to tell us what’s actually below,” he said, rubbing a finger gently over the old paper beneath the front-view of the building. “Concrete floor, sewer pipes, but the sewer line is here” — he moved his finger to the right of the building — “and a secondary connection on the other side, for the cafe. It could be no one’s dug there since the new foundation was poured.”

“Looks like it’s a trip to the library for you then, Q,” Bond said with a smile, thumbing over the page. “Reference librarians tend to be enthusiastic about helping with inquiries like yours...” He trailed off, meeting Q’s somewhat baffled stare. “What?”

“The library can be my second stop, assuming the City of London’s Environment and Planning department doesn’t have it all online,” he said, gently starting to roll the pages back up. Then he let go of the paper; as it flopped back down, he unholstered the phone from his belt. “If nothing else, I can get plans for modern sewer lines — perhaps even the Underground.”

Bond shrugged. “Reference librarians are much more fun to flirt with than the retired engineers in planning department archives.”

“Mmm. If I’m lucky” — he snapped a photo of the information box at the bottom corner of the oldest blueprint — “I won’t have to talk to anyone at all.” He holstered the phone and started rolling up the pages. Then he stopped partway through and blinked over at Bond. “Key?”

Bond pulled the original key from his pocket and held it up, but didn’t pass it over just yet. “You’re not going to go down there without the safety measures I suggested, I hope.” It wasn’t a question, but Bond raised his eyebrow anyway.

For all his apparent genius, Q was a terrible liar, even without factoring in Bond’s uncanny skill at reading people. Q glanced down and to the side, momentarily looking the wrong way to pretend to pay attention to what his hands were doing. He shifted his gaze appropriately, went back to rolling up the papers, and said, “I won’t take any unnecessary risks.”

Bond snorted. “Right. Text me if you change your mind. I happen to have some very high-quality rappelling and safety gear.” He dropped the key onto the blueprints, went to the back room to find his rucksack, and hoisted it on his shoulder. He pulled his mobile out of his pocket to text Alec. As filthy as he was, he didn’t feel like working on the lockpicks; it wasn’t as if he had a mission on his immediate horizon, so he’d need the distraction. He went back to the front room, where Q was tapping the rolled blueprints back into the tube. “Have a good evening, Q.”

Q looked up from the tube and smiled. “Thanks for your help. See you around,” he added as he picked up the tube and went to the back room.

With one last acknowledging nod, Bond left the workshop, stopping only long enough to pick up a handful of discarded wires. Then he went outside, looked across the street at the pub, and considered going to hunt Alec down himself. He sent a text instead, knowing it would irritate Alec.

Then he leaned against the wall by the hackerspace door, deftly twisting the wires in his fingers, and tried not to think about the skinny director getting caught in a cave-in. By the time Alec came out of the pub and tossed him the keys to the Maserati, though, Bond had shaped the wires into a multi-coloured scorpion, and he hadn’t been able to put Q out of his mind.

 

~~~

 

**Sunday, 6 January 2013**

It was foggy and rainy and miserable at five in the morning. Sundays, the cafe opened late, so Q stood alone behind the counter, head resting on the espresso machine, idly thinking of ways to speed up the water heating process. In his fuzzy, not-quite-awake state, he realised that contemplating ‘improvements’ on a high-pressure system was probably not a good thing, but there was no harm in treating it like a mental exercise.

Fortunately, the most dangerous tools in the hackerspace were behind a safety lock that required solving a complex, random maths problem to disengage the latch. He’d installed that little mod after the incident with the plasma torch.

A tap on the front window jerked him out of his half-doze. He blinked and looked at the dark figure looming against the fog, but there wasn’t a chance he’d actually see an identity — not without his glasses. He shuffled forward, only then remembering that he was barefoot and that health inspectors might object. But if it was a health inspector at five in the morning on a Sunday, he’d eat the espresso machine piece by piece.

When he was three feet away, he recognised the new guy’s partner. Alan? Something like that. Hoping like hell not to get caught up in a domestic, Q dragged himself to the door and undid the locks.

“Morning, sunshine,” the tall, distractingly broad-shouldered man said cheerfully as he let himself in. He was dripping wet but not muddy, so Q didn’t say anything. “Glad to see you’re — Good god, you’re _not_ awake, are you? Do you always open the cafe in your pyjamas?”

“Espresso,” Q said, and headed back in the direction of the machine that promised caffeine and consciousness in tiny, delicious cups.

“Should you be doing that in your condition?”

What the _hell_ was his name? It would be rude to ask, wouldn’t it? Q stared at him, wondering how the hell his eyes were _that green_. Just like James’, only not blue. Green and blue; Christ, they made a striking pair. No wonder why they were together. Probably against the law for them to date anyone not half so beautiful.

Q leaned back against the counter and closed his eyes, listening to the hiss and gurgle of the espresso machine waking up. Poor thing was just as tired as he was. He patted the steel housing.

“Right. Rehabilitation for burns is horrid,” Adam — no, not Adam — said, and put a hand on Q’s arm.

“Customers on the other side,” Q said, remembering that Mr Siegel got upset when the customers wandered.

“You play customer, I’ll play barista.”

Q let himself be pulled to the table by the display of coffee grinders. They never actually sold worth a damn, except to the hackers who needed motors for experiments. Of course, that was the whole point of having the machines for sale — to provide a readily available source of components.

“Alec!” he said, lifting his head from where he’d pillowed it on his arms.

“Hm?” came the answer, followed by the wonderful hiss of steam that told Q the espresso machine was finally ready to start saving lives.

“Right.” Satisfied, he put his head back down on the table. Really, he needed to automate this. It would require some very complex engineering, though. Tamping the grounds in the portafilter would be easy, with some force-feedback programming to reach the correct pressure. But the precision for a robot arm to get the portafilter in place... He could use optics for alignment and verification. He’d need optics in any case to make sure the portafilter basket was clean of grounds for subsequent pulls. But there were variations — subtle changes in water and steam temperature, for example — that people always said required a human touch.

Well, not a _human_ touch. Advanced robotics. Adaptive programming that could learn and change itself.

He snickered into his sleeves, thinking that it would be incredibly amusing to accidentally create Skynet out of a robot barista. But at least the human slaves working for the Machine State would have damned good coffee. That counted for something.

“Better than most offices,” he muttered as Alec — yes, that was definitely his name — set down a cup with at least two shots in it. Maybe three. Q slid the cup closer, swiped a finger over the lovely brown crema at the top, and licked it off.

“You look like you take it black, in this state,” Alec said as he sat down. Q was a bit surprised that the chair didn’t break. It wasn’t that he was fat — not at all. He just looked solidly muscled, like James.

“You met at a gym,” he guessed, and pulled the cup of espresso into the circle of his arms so he could breathe in the steam. He’d been rubbish at biology, so he had no idea if his body could process any aerosolised molecules of caffeine that were clinging to the steam, but it seemed to help jump-start his brain all the same.

“Sorry?” Alec asked.

“Nothing.” Too late, Q remembered his rule about personal questions. Asking them would result in _being_ asked, and that led to him being required to lie.

“So, I’m guessing you’re not an employee of the cafe,” Alec said.

Q shook his head, and then rested his forehead in one hand. His fingers helped keep the fringe out of his eyes. “No. Mr Siegel made pastries last night, but they’re racked, not baked. He’ll be...” He dropped a hand below the table and patted his pockets, wondering if he’d brought his mobile down. He hadn’t. “What time is it? Sunday, right?”

Alec made a slightly choked sound. “Yes. Sunday. Sunday at... twelve past five in the bloody morning. I rather agree with your nonverbal assessment of mornings, you know. Awful things.”

 _Why are you here?_ Q thought about asking, but that verged on personal. Instead, he lowered his head so he could tip the cup enough to take a test sip. The effort to actually _lift_ the cup seemed unreasonable and sent his mind off on a tangent about the effects of a localised antigravity field attached to a heavy coffee cup full of liquid. He had a feeling it would end up causing a coffee-style rain once the droplets left the field.

“I am _not_ sleep-engineering,” he said, more for his own benefit than for Alec’s.

“God, I wish you would. It’s bloody adorable.”

Q raised his brows, looking across the table. “Aren’t you —” slipped out before he could stop himself.

Alec’s grin narrowed his green, green eyes in a way that was just... well, the word ‘sinful’ came to mind. “Aren’t I what? I’m very flexible.”

“Oh, god,” Q mumbled as those words sank claws into his brain. “Where’s James?”

“Making our lockpicks. _Someone_ distracted him yesterday.”

He didn’t sound angry, thankfully, though Q quickly let that pass. He started to look down, thinking the espresso was a perfectly safe visual target, except he stalled somewhere around mid-chest. Alec was obviously the better dresser of the two, wearing a button-down shirt just visible at the collar under a light cream knitted jumper. It looked soft, and Q’s fingers itched to touch. Of course, that just put Q in mind of how James’ black shirt had clung to him yesterday — a shirt full of little scorch marks and holes burnt through the fabric to give teasing glances of bare skin.

“Fucking hell,” Q muttered uncomfortably. Morning sex was one of his weaknesses. Lazy, half-asleep, uninhibited morning sex. No urgency, no fumbling, no ‘getting late, must get to sleep soon’ rush. Just the foggy grey morning light outside the window and a sleep-warm bed and he was _not_ going to have these thoughts sitting across from one half of the most gorgeous married pair in London.

“You all right?” Alec asked. It sounded like he was trying not to laugh. Bastard.

“Breakers,” Q said, a flash of brilliant inspiration shining through the fog like the sudden headlamp of an oncoming train. “Could you tell James the panel’s behind the ladder if he blows something up?”

Alec’s grin just got wider. “Uh huh. Don’t touch anything hot while I’m gone,” he said, and left the table.

Q let his head fall to the table surface beside his cup. Naturally he wasn’t lucky enough to have the floor under his seat open up to swallow him. So he hid his face and listened as Alec let himself through the connecting door to the hackerspace.

Then, desperately, he took the cup of espresso and fled for the back staircase that led up to the privacy of his flat.

If this became a regular occurrence, he’d damned well buy himself his own espresso machine.

 

~~~

 

“Oi! James!” Alec shouted over the sparking whirr of the bench grinder.

Bond didn’t turn his head to spare Alec a look — his fingers were far too valuable to be distracted by Alec’s bellowing. If it were truly important, the lazy git could walk over and talk to him directly. Not to mention, of course, he was making excellent progress on getting the shape of the steel right. He loved watching a project, and idea, start to form from the purity of raw material.

Alec did eventually make his way over, wearing scratched yellow safety glasses that looked like he’d taken them from the rack by the door. “You just missed the most adorable thing I’ve seen in months,” he shouted, lifting a ceramic mug of espresso.

“If you’re referring to the one with blue hair, I somehow doubt that,” Bond replied dryly. He’d seen her glare a self-possessed, arrogant twenty-something into silent submission when the kid tried to flirt with her. “Bring me any coffee?”

“I made two cups, but gave one to Q. It seemed medically critical. I think he might be undead.” Alec snickered. “He was barely coherent.”

“He’s pale enough; undead is a possibility.” Bond slid the metal just a few degrees to the left and watched the rounded corner fall into perfect symmetry with the other side. He flipped off the grinder, sat back, and set the start of a new pick on the worktable. “He didn’t strike me as the morning type. I wonder if he’s just still up from last night.”

“You planning to find out if he _is_ a morning type?” Alec asked too casually.

“Alec,” Bond warned, turning back to the row of metal pieces he had queued up next to the machine. “This is the best hackerspace I’ve been to in years.”

Alec gave him an innocent look that didn’t fool him for a moment. “What are you implying?”

“That if you want us to not be banned from one of the few bloody places left in London where I can show my face in the machine shop and not have people run screaming, you should avoid seducing the director.” Bond tapped the metal unnecessarily on the edge of the worktable. “Lockpicks are good, remember?”

“You didn’t see him,” Alec pointed out. “He was practically asleep on the espresso machine. No glasses, bare feet, hair a wreck... I wanted to take him home and feed him. If not for the whole ‘burned down the bloody house’ thing.”

“He’s not your type,” Bond tried, not exactly certain why he was bothering to protest. He didn’t actually have any plans to seduce Q, but he didn’t want Alec to take a crack at him either. “He’s the sort of genius you find in TSS. Remember what happened the last time you tangled with a hacker?”

“Look, shagging someone who thinks you’re shagging her only to get access to experimental tech is one thing. I have no ulterior motives here. I’m absolutely innocent,” Alec declared.

Bond couldn’t help the disbelieving chuckle that escaped him. “If you say so, Alec,” he said, shaking his head. “Go on, then. And if you’re stuck trying to fix your credit rating _again_ , don’t expect me to let you borrow my car.”

“Oh, now there’s a thought,” Alec all but purred. “Think he likes cars? The Maserati always works. Just exotic enough to make them look twice. I should go find out. He’s probably asleep on the table, poor thing. Have fun with your bench grinder.”

Bond thought about the look of excitement Q got when he saw the old door, the way he lit up at the thought that he was about to go exploring. “I doubt that car is going to do it, Alec,” he said, looking down at the lockpick in his hand. “Try old, broken things with a lot of potential for repair. Or a date that’s actually a shipwreck tour or the exploration of an abandoned building. I think even a junkyard tour with a project in mind for whatever components you’re looking for would be considered romantic to him.”

“Battersea Power Station,” Alec decided at once. “A little trespassing is appropriate for a first date.” He clapped a hand on Bond’s shoulder. “Thanks. For that, I’ll get you a coffee.”

Bond shook his head and turned to the grinder. “Right. Thanks.” He flipped it on before Alec had a chance to respond, and started on the second bit of metal. What was the harm in letting Alec have his fun? If anything went badly, Bond could just make sure he didn’t bring Alec around anymore. It wasn’t as if Bond were looking for a relationship... especially with a director of one of the few hackerspaces in greater London that didn’t know better than to have him around yet.

Pressing all thoughts of an adorably rumpled Q out of his mind, Bond went back to smoothing and rounding the edges of his picks.


	3. Chapter 3

**Saturday, 12 January 2013**

Bond stood under the shower in his hotel room, head pressed to the tiles, trying to focus on the feeling of nothing but the water on his skin. He’d been called in the middle of his work on the lockpicks and ended up in Iraq to retrieve a British national with far, far too much knowledge of oil pipelines.

Absurdly, now, five days later, he wasn’t thinking about how many people he’d killed, how many people he’d let die as he’d fled with the brutally tortured Walker, how different Walker’s life was going to be now that he no longer had the use of his right hand. He was thinking about Q, and Alec, and whether or not they’d found anything interesting through the curious metal door in the coal cellar.

He knew it wouldn’t last, his fucked-up psyche’s blatant attempt to divert attention from what had been his worst mission in months, but at least he could chase it — give his brain something else to focus on before it could compare the broken British scientist to himself.

This was how he found himself, less than an hour later, staring into the darkness of the coal cellar. Though it was nearly three o’clock in the morning, London was bright enough that street and building lights cut through the shop, giving him just enough to see the shapes of tools and the outlines of equipment. Bond closed his eyes, trying not to think of dark cells with no electricity, and turned away from the cellar.

It was time for a diversion, and the mystery of the cellar door obviously wasn’t going to cut it. One of the group emails that had been sent to all members of the Nova Prospekt hackerspace had said something about a donated box of flawed Arduino boards. Bond had been meaning to explore the potential of the open-source automations system as a means to keep him and Alec from burning down anything else, but hadn’t had the time before going to Iraq. Right now, it seemed like a bloody _fantastic_ idea.

Bond sat at one of the computers and printed out the schematic and mounting diagrams from the Arduino website. He thought about printing the manual, but decided that for now, he just needed to focus on the board. He sat down with the documentation and a handful of spare wires, twisting the wires together as he read the specs.

Two wire scorpions sat to either side of the board by the time Bond felt ready to start checking circuit continuity. He was ticking off each circuit on the wiring diagram — otherwise he’d end up repeating his work or missing some circuits — when the front door opened, despite the late hour. Q walked in, looking like a drowned kitten, hair plastered down over his eyes. He shoved it back into dark, wet spikes and blinked in Bond’s direction.

“Evening,” he said, sounding puzzled. He unzipped a parka two sizes too large, water sheeting off the outer shell, and took a glasses case out of an interior pocket. His face was red from the cold, and he looked like he was shivering. His jeans were soaked through from mid-thigh to the cuffs hanging over heavy tan workboots.

“Hello.” Bond left everything on the worktable and stood. He walked to the little kitchenette he’d discovered in the far back, filled the electric kettle that lived there with clean water, and flipped it on. Then he opened a drawer to get a handful of towels — admittedly ragged and ugly with their grease stains and burn holes, but clean — and wordlessly offered them to Q just as he passed by on the way to the back room.

Q stopped in his tracks and looked at the towels as if wondering how to upgrade them. “Oh! Um, ten minutes and they’ll be more useful,” he said, and grinned at James. “I have, er, stuff. Want to help bring it in? I can do the outside bit.”

Bond nodded and set the towels on his chair. He pulled on his jacket, checking to make sure his wallet was in an inside pocket where it would be less likely to get soaked. He zipped it quickly, flipped up the collar, and waited for Q to lead the way.

Q rolled up the back garage door, revealing a heavy-duty Land Rover with a winch on the front and a military-grade rooftop light bar. It looked about six inches away from getting lodged in the narrow alley behind the building. He went out into the rain, saying, “You can stay there. You’ll get soaked.” He stuck a hand in his pocket, and the Land Rover’s alarm beeped.

“It’s fine.” Bond didn’t mind the rain — in fact, there was something soothing about it right now, when he still felt the heat of the desert sun on the back of his neck. He stuck his hands in his pockets and narrowed his eyes at the truck. It didn’t show any signs of the rough use he was used to seeing on those sorts of vehicles — no mud on the tyres or undercarriage, no bullet holes through the side panels.

When Bond helped him open the back gate, Q grinned at him. His glasses were already soaked, flaring the reflected garage light into starbursts on the lenses, probably making it impossible for him to see. Rain pounded down around them, but the back window provided a little island of dry shelter for them.

“Friday, businesses throw out all sorts of rubbish,” Q explained excitedly. He pulled out a bundle of thick electrical wiring, the sort meant to power heavy machinery; the insulation was cracked, and there was no way it was up to code for actual use. “Just watch your hands,” he warned, hefting the twists of cable up over his arms. The stuff was almost as thick around as Q’s thin wrists, and he wondered how Q had managed the weight.

A closer look at the back of the truck showed that Q had played magpie with potentially useful rubbish from what were probably manufacturing facilities. Scrap metal, spools of cabling, old computers, bundles of wire, and other random (but potentially useful) junk filled the interior, and Bond spent several moments evaluating before he touched. He knew Q was a fairly intelligent person, but that didn’t necessarily mean smart; he wouldn’t have put it past him to happen upon potentially explosive compounds and snatch them up in a fit of excited imagination. To his relief, he didn’t see anything that looked remotely chemical, so he started gathering up the heaviest objects to haul inside.

Q’s treasures were everything from scrap metal to old computers, some of them complete with hard drives, as if no one on the planet understood the concept of information security. TSS had an entire group dedicated to information restoration for just such an occasion, and Bond wondered if Q’s motives in collecting the computers were innocent or not.

Together, they emptied the Land Rover in short order, piling everything just inside the rain-damp, now slightly muddy back room. “I’m going to park. Would you mind locking the garage?” Q asked as he slammed the back gate.

“Sure.” Bond walked back to the door to watch Q drive off. As soaked as he already was, it didn’t matter if he stood outside for just a moment longer, letting the rain and cold seep back into his bones where it belonged. His fingers itched to light a cigarette, but the futility of it would have been laughable. Finally, he stepped back inside and shut the garage door with a hard snap. It fell into place and bounced; Bond let it settle before crouching and engaging the deadbolt.

He turned to survey the pile, wondering how many businesses Q had visited, how long it had taken him to drive from place to place, looking for anything of interest. He imagined that Q would have had the same excited grin on his face the whole time, expression and body language filled with anticipation and eagerness at the possibilities. With a sigh, he picked up a laptop that looked at least ten years old — thick and grey and unwieldy. He couldn’t decide if Q’s pleasant eagerness was going to be a balm on his dark mood, or simply another irritant.

Q came back in through the front room, using one of the spotted flannels on his hair; if it had been wrecked before, it was a disaster now, especially with him ruffling the towel through it until it stood in spikes. He offered the other to Bond with another easy grin as he stopped to look down at the treasures.

“Robotics, component disassembly, welding practice,” he said, ticking off a new part of the pile as he spoke. “We were thinking of holding a workshop. There’s this sort of crazy artist who said she’d teach welding if she could use the students as models.”

“Welding is as much an art as a science,” Bond said, accepting the towel. He flipped the laptop over to look at the stickers on the bottom while he dried his face. Any business owner worth his salt would have attempted to erase the hard drives. There were probably all sorts of delicious files in his hands, from account numbers and names to personal emails that might contain blackmail material to records of the kind of porn the former owners liked. “Are you going to pull the hard drives or trust in the benevolence of your members?”

“Oh.” Q blinked a few times as he finished trying to dry his hair. He took off his glasses and pointlessly tried to dry the lenses with the flannel, which just smudged the water around even more. “I can scrub them, but we don’t need them.” Then his smile reappeared, and he rubbed the back of his hand over the dark stubble coming in at his jaw. “We could use them as targets.”

It was only through years of practice that Bond didn’t betray his immediate tension with a sharp look and a stuttered breath. He reminded himself that someone like Q wasn’t likely to have any sort of firearms, and he quickly considered other possibilities. “Tasers? Potato guns? Or has Alec been a bad influence?”

“Tasers. I like that,” Q said, his grin turning sharp and wicked. “Efficient data erasure through electrical overload. Get as close as you can to scorching without actually setting anything on fire.”

Bond didn’t miss the lack of an actual answer about Alec, but shrugged it off. “Are we putting things away tonight?” he asked.

“I’ll take care of it. I didn’t mean to interrupt. What were you doing? Anything interesting?” Q tossed the flannel over his shoulder and unzipped his parka again. Underneath, he was wearing a University of Cambridge hoodie.

“Not yet,” Bond said truthfully. Knowing that the Arduino boards had defects but having to hunt out the defect himself was proving to be a tedious task. In fact, he’d begun to think it might be better to start working on a board from scratch. “Are you sure you don’t require assistance? I don’t mind.”

“That _would_ help,” Q said gratefully, looking around. “Um... computers up front, so no one confuses them with machines we’re actually using for coding. Scrap metal back there — God, do I actually _let_ Sue do her demonstration? She’s a bit terrifying. I’m not certain she understands the difference between using people as models or for components.”

“That _does_ sound rather alarming,” Bond said with a raised eyebrow. “Is crazy Sue your only option for a welding instructor?” Hoping Q would get the hint, Bond handed him the laptop and moved on to the more dangerous scrap metal. He was cold and wet with his jacket still on, but wanted to keep the extra layer of protection between him and the sharp edges.

“Right now, yes. She’s got the most experience.” Q glanced over at Bond with a little frown. “Um, do you want gloves? I should have offered before. Sorry.”

Bond let the metal fall to the cement floor in the back, where Q had indicated it should go, with a satisfying crash. He gave the pile a cursory glance for anything particularly useful before turning back to Q. “It’s fine,” he said before gathering up the next pile. He secretly decided to make a point to attend crazy Sue’s demonstration, quietly armed, if he was in town.

 

~~~

 

James was nice, Q decided an hour later, as they drank tea and pulled hard drives, trading off the use of the one electric screwdriver that had a charged battery. James was very nice, and if he kept darting glances at Q with gorgeous blue eyes, clear like a cloudless summer sky, Q was _not_ going to notice, and he told himself that. Repeatedly.

The last week had been chaotic, to say the least. James hadn’t come in even once, though Alec had — on Monday, Wednesday, and Thursday morning, in fact. Not to the hackerspace, of which he wasn’t a member, but to the cafe. Q, who needed morning caffeine like a drowning man needs oxygen, kept encountering him, and though he fully intended for nothing more than a nod and passing hello, those encounters turned into brief moments of sharing a table, which turned into Alec’s stories of exotic travel destinations.

After realising nearly an hour had passed in delightful conversation with Alec on Thursday morning, Q had avoided the cafe all day Friday and kept falling asleep, which led to him being stuck on the nocturnal schedule that left him here at just past four in the morning. With James. Who was also here on a Friday night, rather than at home with his husband. Who was here killing time by making little wire scorpions and helping Q take apart scavenged computers.

God, there must have been a domestic between them. Q desperately hoped it wasn’t his fault.

“Think we should start taking apart the boards, or leave that to the others? Some of them might be useful intact,” he said thoughtfully.

“Perhaps it’s simply my presently destructive mood, but I wouldn’t mind taking apart a few of them. Leave the best for quick and dirty use by whoever wants them, but also have a handful available for a fresh start.” James shot a look over at where he’d been working before Q came in. “Speaking of fresh starts, I could use a blank board. Where can I find one?”

“Oh! Easy. Did anyone give you a tour? I’m sorry. I should have,” Q apologised, thinking he might have missed James if he’d come in at off-hours. He pushed his chair away and wheeled it over to the appropriate plastic drawer. “What size?”

“A half-size breadboard,” James said, watching where Q was reaching.

Q nodded and pulled out a breadboard, slightly battered around the edges, and a plastic box of assorted wires with stripped ends. They were no longer straight and neat, but they were all still useable.

He pushed back to the table, mildly irritated at how one of the wheels on the chair got stuck, and handed both across to James. “Most of the components are in the plastic drawers there. Anything bigger is under the bench seat up front,” he said, pointing over at what had been the DIY store window. “If we have batteries — and that’s usually quite a big ‘if’ — they’d be in the other bench seat. There are some random power transformers in there as well. They’re more reliable.”

“Thanks,” James said, turning the board over in his hands. He stared at it for several long moments, eyes distant, running his thumbs along the edges. “Such a small thing,” he finally said, still not looking at Q. “Such potential. Though I’m sure I’ll break it, and probably its replacement, before I manage to get to something functional. Good thing they’re inexpensive,” he added with a wry grin at Q. Then James set the breadboard aside and tugged off his jacket, hanging it on the back of his chair.

“Breaking things is half the fun. Maybe more.” Q pulled over the first gutted computer and started working the video card free. It was ancient, but it could still be useful. As he worked, he glanced at James, noticing scratches on his hands, especially around the knuckles. It took a moment for him to think that James might have cut himself out back, and all that rusty metal — _shit_. “Are you all right? We have a couple of first aid kits on the walls,” he said, suddenly anxious.

“Hmm?” James looked up from the laptop he’d chosen to start working on. He raised an eyebrow, cool blue eyes staring dispassionately at Q. It was intense and alarming and made his heart thump hard, scrambling his thoughts for a moment.

He found his voice only when he looked back down. He wrenched the video card free with sudden strength as he said, “Your hands.”

James looked down and frowned, flexing his fingers. “It’s fine. And not from the scrap metal, so don’t worry.” He reached forward to take a screwdriver from the toolset in the middle of the table and started working on the case. “What do you want done with the hard drives?”

Q absolutely, flatly refused to think of any _other_ reason that James might have cuts on his hands. He didn’t think of how Alec had been spending time here — a lot of time — or how both men were strong, physical types. Something inside him went cold and tight, though, and for the first time in forever, he wondered just how safe he was here, in his refuge.

After all, there were no background checks for a hackerspace like this. Most of the expensive equipment was bolted, locked, or chained up — a sensible precaution for a workshop run on donations for strangers who had access at all hours — but Q had never considered _personal_ safety.

He swallowed and said, “I’ll box them. You’ve done enough. I appreciate the help.”

Bond looked up curiously before his expression shifted to amusement. “It’s from my job, Q. I work for the same company Alec does. We travel a lot, and there is a significant physical component to our work. No need to be nervous.” With a chuckle, Bond looked back down at the laptop.

Q felt his face go hot and red, and he ducked further, tugging fruitlessly at the sound card before realising it was screwed in. God, was he that transparent? Or was James used to people immediately associating him with violence? And even if he was, did that mean Q really had no reason to be nervous, with all the time Alec had been spending with him?

And hell, all the time Q was spending with James... That was really no better. How was he supposed to know which of them was jealous or irrational or _anything_?

This was why he hated dealing with people. Machines were so much more logical, answering to a set of logical conditions and programming. Even when they failed, the failures always yielded a logical explanation upon further examination.

He finally got the tiny screw out with a thumbnail, not bothering to deal with finding a mini-screwdriver. He pulled out the sound card and dropped it beside the motherboard before he shoved his chair back. The stuck wheel squealed in protest.

“I’ll get a box,” he said, and headed for the back room, skin crawling with some new, untested instinct that whispered _danger_ in his ear.

 _No more people_ , he told himself firmly as he went to the server area. There were some Amazon shipping boxes back there, or so he recalled. He’d box the hard drives, lock them up in one of the secure cabinets, and then leave. It was late, and while he didn’t think he’d actually fall asleep, he had more than enough video games to occupy his time.

 

~~~

 

Bond sighed to himself as he quickly and efficiently pulled apart the last of the computers Q had brought back. He’d known that he wasn’t in a good place. He’d known that anyone would take one look at him and carefully retreat without turning their back on him, which is why he’d chosen to come to the hackerspace at a time it’d most likely be empty.

Most of the time, his aura of deadliness had fantastic use. It served him well in the field, in negotiations. Hell, it even attracted the right kind of people to his bed while scaring off others. But tonight, as he watched Q grow twitchy and nervous after spotting his fight-torn knuckles, Bond didn’t feel anything but weary.

He pulled the last hard drive free and dropped it in the repurposed Amazon box Q had brought in from the back. As Q silently taped the box, Bond slid the side panel back into place on the tower. He stood and lifted the machine, carrying it to the pile of scrapped computers.

Not wanting to spook Q any more, Bond returned to his worktable instead of to where they’d pulled the computers apart. He watched Q for a moment, suddenly wondering why in the hell it had taken Q so long to recognise the razor edge Bond hadn’t quite been able to hide tonight — it had only been when he’d seen the physical evidence of Bond’s violence that he turned nervous. That spoke to a very underdeveloped sense of self-preservation that Bond decided was a little alarming.

Bond picked up the clear plastic craft box he’d brought with him to store his project. He carefully gathered his components and dropped them into their individual slots, leaving the scorpions on the table. He darted the occasional glance Q’s way, taking in his flustered attitude with growing concern.

“Thank you for the diversion, Q. I think I’m going to go. I have to be at work in a few hours,” he said quietly. He stood slowly and walked over to his locker in the back room, crouching to disengage the lock.

“I appreciate the help. Good night,” Q called. A moment later, Bond heard the rustle of fabric; Q’s parka, he guessed.

It wasn’t ideal for Q to leave in his presently distracted state, Bond decided suddenly. Not only wasn’t this the best part of London, but from what Bond had seen, Q had absolutely no sense of his surroundings when his thoughts were occupied. And Q seemed extremely inattentive right now. Bond decided it was probably best to follow him home, just to make sure he’d be all right.

“You too,” he called as Q left — escaped, was more like it. Quickly, Bond retrieved his coat and rucksack. He checked his phone to ensure it was on silent rather than vibrate, counted to ten, then silently slipped out from the workshop, locking the door behind him quickly before turning to scan for Q.

He was heading up the street, against traffic, towards the nearest corner. He had the hood of his parka up, blocking his peripheral vision, and was hunched against the cold rain. Bond felt confident enough to move up closer, and was only twenty feet back when Q turned the corner. He didn’t even look back — no situational awareness whatsoever, Bond thought, shaking his head.

Then he wondered if he was wrong, because Q ducked right back into the alley that ran behind the block of buildings. Bond stopped and hung back, wondering if Q was right on the other side of the corner, waiting to see who was tailing him.

But then he heard a splash, followed by a softly muttered curse, from down the alley. When he peered around the corner, he saw Q several buildings down, heading towards the back of the hackerspace.

 _Curiouser and curiouser_ , Bond thought wryly as he followed Q, careful to avoid the same puddle that had given Q away. He wondered if Q had forgotten something, or was checking to make sure Bond had left, but neither of those options made particular sense given that the only entrance to the workshop in the back was the garage door — which locked from the inside.

He stopped near the garage door, but not at it, and ducked his head as he took something out of his pocket. He unlocked a door, stepped inside, and pulled it closed.

The door, Bond noted, led into the same building as Nova Prospekt and the hackerspace.

Bond closed his eyes and thought about the schematics that Q had shown him earlier. The doorway didn’t lead into the hackerspace or the cafe — it was adjacent to their walls, but still part of the same building. The building that had three additional floors above the workspaces.

Bond stepped away from the building walls that he’d been hugging and went to the other side of the alley to get a better look. After a minute, a light came on at the upper floor.

Q actually lived in the building, Bond realised. And not just in what might have been a cheap apartment above the cafe and workshop (where a normal tenant might be annoyed by the unending noise), but the top floor.

Wasn’t that interesting.

With a mental note to find out if perhaps there was more to Q than met the eye — though he did seem awfully young to be wealthy enough to own an entire building — Bond crossed the alley to check and made sure the door was secure. Though the lock was a simple deadbolt — easy to either kick in or pick — it was enough to make Bond nod in satisfaction before he turned and headed back to the hotel.


	4. Chapter 4

**Monday, 14 January 2013**

 “Well, there you are.”

The soft voice slithered over the back of Q’s neck, making him almost jump out of his skin. He _did_ jump a good foot away, banging one hip painfully into the hallway corner. “Fuck!”

Alec raised an eyebrow, his grin becoming even sharper. He was leaning casually against the corner, holding a paper coffee cup and a brown paper sandwich bag. “A little too much caffeine today?”

Q took a deep breath, trying to keep it steady, though he wasn’t entirely successful. “What are you doing here?” he blurted out before he could stop himself.

“Lunch” — he held up the paper bag — “though I wouldn’t mind eating in instead of at my desk.”

Though Q’s first instinct was to glare and send him away, he realised that Alec might be here _now_ for a reason. “Where’s James?” he asked more quietly as a new type of nervousness came over him. He didn’t _do_ people, but he couldn’t let this opportunity pass by.

Alec’s answering look seemed a bit baffled. “At the office, I suppose. Why?”

“Let me grab my tea. Sit down,” Q said, gesturing to the corner table. It was never taken because it was by the swinging kitchen door.

The choice seemed to amuse Alec, who sat down in the corner. He set down his coffee cup and peeled the lid off. Q went to the counter and got his tea from Sapphire, who leaned over and said, “You finally making your move? He’s a cutie.”

“He’s married,” Q whispered.

She winked. “That just means he’s broken-in.”

Q rolled his eyes and took his tea to the back table. Alec gave him that same assessing, _interested_ look he always did, and this time, Q’s answering shiver was for entirely different reasons, most of them focused around just how effortlessly James would be able to break him in half if he caught them flirting.

“You all right?” Alec asked.

“I was —” Q hesitated, realising that all of the calm, logical words seemed to have fallen out of his head. He didn’t want to get involved, but he couldn’t let it pass. And besides, he already was involved, at least a little, unless he had the board bar James from the hackerspace, and they had no cause. And he couldn’t keep Alec out of the cafe — it was a public space, after all — and it wasn’t as if _he_ could stay out of the cafe —

“Q?”

Alec’s hand touched his, and he jumped again, splashing hot tea everywhere. Q snatched at serviettes to mop everything up and batted away Alec’s efforts to help. Looking down at the mess, Q realised there was nothing for it; he had to say _something_.

“Did James hurt you?” he asked, words tumbling out in a rush.

Alec’s silence _seemed_ cold and offended, at least in Q’s mind. But when he shot Alec a quick, nervous look, he saw only confusion. “Sorry?” Alec asked, frowning.

Q stared at him. “It’s — it’s fine, if — Oh, god. Not _fine_ , but it’s not _you_. You’re —”

“You _really_ don’t need more caffeine,” Alec interrupted gently, catching Q’s hand. He took away the wet serviettes and put them aside. He didn’t release Q’s fingers, though. “Other than the fact that James is incapable of ‘hurting’ me without a sniper rifle, what on earth are you talking about?”

Wondering how to free his hand without making a scene — especially because he didn’t _want_ to — Q said, “His hands. He hit _someone_. And you were only here last week when he wasn’t.”

“He was out of the country.” Alec moved his other hand in, trapping Q’s. His touch was gentle, even comforting. “Why would you think he’d hit _me_ , though?”

“I thought — I mean, you haven’t been...” He trailed off and looked down at their hands. “And if you’re cheating on him —”

“Cheating?” Alec asked blankly.

Q blinked up at him. “You... you _are_ married, aren’t you?”

In response, Alec burst out laughing.

 

~~~

 

The office door flew open with enough force that Bond was out of his seat, gun drawn, before he’d even fully registered the bang of the door handle against the wall. “You cheating bastard!” Alec accused, storming in. He caught the door and swung it shut hard enough to rattle the wall.

Bond took a step back, running a quick evaluation. Alec wasn’t injured, wasn’t armed, and showed no signs of the sort of drug use that might explain such random behaviour. Satisfied, Bond holstered his gun and raised an eyebrow. “She said she loved me?” he ventured with a smirk.

Alec snorted out a choked laugh and walked to his desk on the wall opposite Bond’s. He sat down, turned, and put his foot on Bond’s chair to spin it around to face him. “So just how long have we been married, dear?”

Bond snorted. “If we were married at some point, chances are we would have made a clean break of it long ago, _before_ you burned down the house. Without the legal contract, seems I can’t get rid of you.”

“Not for lack of trying, since you’re apparently the _abusive_ husband of the two of us.” Alec reached back and picked up his stapler. He started clicking it to drop folded staples into his hand. “At least that’s what a certain not-quite-such-a-genius thinks.”

Bond couldn’t help it; he laughed. The thought of _anyone_ trying to be abusive to Alec, even Bond himself, was absurd. “Oh honey, if only you wouldn’t push my buttons.” With a last chuckle, Bond settled back into his chair. He thought about Q’s skittish behaviour, his refusal to talk about Alec. “Well, bollocks.”

Alec let out another snort of laughter and dropped the stapler onto his desk. As he started linking the staples together, he said, “I at least set him to rights on some of it, though that’s not the end of the mess. He’s been operating on the theory that I’m lurking around him in hopes of cheating on you, and that you caught me at it and are just biding your time to catch him alone and teach him a lesson about what’s yours and all that.”

“Lurking?” Bond asked. “This is what happens when you try to be smooth and subtle. If you had asked him out already, there wouldn’t be an issue.” He couldn’t help but chuckle again, shaking his head. Let Alec think it was because of the absurdity of being labelled an abusive husband, instead of Bond’s secret relief that Alec and Q weren’t solid yet. “What do you want me to do? The poor, skittish genius is apparently quite frightened of me.”

“At least now he’s frightened of coming off looking like an arse, rather than the thought that you’re going to kill him for seducing your husband.” Alec smirked and threw the chain of staples at Bond. “You should be so bloody lucky. No one else is insane enough to put up with your shit.”

“Pot, kettle, Alec,” Bond reminded him, catching the chain. “I suppose you want me to go down there and, without laughing at the bloody absurdity of it all, assure him that I’m quite happy to see you two on the path to a house in the suburbs and two-point-five kids?”

Alec quirked a brow. “And _your_ happy prospects with him? Don’t tell me you haven’t been thinking along those lines, James. I can practically read your bloody mind.”

“ _I_ just wanted a place to work on projects in peace, without setting off fire alarms and forcing the poor idiots in Communications to squash local law enforcement response,” Bond argued. “Besides, you called dibs first. Far be it from me to object.”

Alec stared at him.

Bond sighed and thought about the adorable enthusiasm, the crooked grin, the spacey tangents that Q tended to fall into that Alec wouldn’t understand, but Bond did. Then he thought about the nervous looks directed at his battered knuckles and the way he’d fled from Bond the last time he’d been in the workshop. “Even if I did object, he hasn’t the slightest bit of interest in me, Alec.”

“And _which_ of us had a chat with him after disabusing him of the notion that we’re married?” Alec asked, looking thoughtfully up at the ceiling. “Oh, wait, that would be _me_ , because you were here fucking around — What are you doing, anyway? The Iraq after action report?”

Bond glared at the computer. “Have you filed an after action report recently? They changed the system. You can’t just send an attachment anymore — you have to fill out a bloody form. The bean counters say it’s supposed to make things easier for us, but I fully intend on finding the bloody idiot who decided character limits were necessary —”

“Do you want to fuck him, date him, or none of the above?” Then Alec added, “Q, not the bean counter. Him, we’ll just hit with tear gas.”

Bond held up the staple chain and thought about how Q would probably look at it and get all sorts of ideas for upgrading staplers or finding alternate uses for discarded staple bits, and smiled sadly. “All of the above, Alec.”

“Right,” Alec said in a tone of voice usually reserved for complicated missions for which he was about to propose a simple solution — usually one involving a very appealing amount of explosives. It was one of the reasons why they’d been best mates for twenty years, give or take. “So what’s stopping you?”

“Apparently my blind rage at your being a cheating bastard,” Bond answered with a laugh, and threw the staple chain back at Alec.

Amused, Alec snatched the staples out of the air. “Your fault, darling. You never take me anywhere nice anymore. And you wonder why I burned the bloody house down, starting with the kitchen.”

“Somewhere nice,” Bond said thoughtfully. He thought about the rappelling gear he’d fortunately left in storage with the majority of his outdoor equipment, and the hole in the floor of the workshop. Then he wondered how hard it would be to make a 3D visual representation of what the underground area within a few miles of Nova Prospekt looked like. “Alec,” he said with a grin, “how do you feel about going to wrangle some TSS nerds with me?”

“I hate the TSS nerds.” Alec tossed the staple chain back to Bond and said, very casually, “I rather had an eye on Q as you know.”

Bond raised an eyebrow. “Are you proposing sharing or _sharing_ , Alec?”

Alec let out an amused huff and leaned back in his chair. “Considering we _have_ shared a bed, and the most I got out of it was the lovely knowledge that you steal blankets, I think that ship has sailed. Of course, we were in bloody Siberia at the time, so maybe you’re on better behaviour in home territory.”

“Let’s not test the theory,” Bond said, shaking his head and smiling. The thought of sharing someone with Alec wasn’t inherently distasteful. They’d shared everything from housing to blood over the years, and Bond knew they could both lavish attention on Q without trying to outdo each other. In fact, it would probably work out to Q’s significant advantage. Between Alec and Bond, he might have enough company between missions to equate what he’d find from one ‘normal’ boyfriend. Bond could provide the intellectual partnership — someone to share in the excitement of engineering and coding. And Alec could provide the gentle, romantic aspect of dating that Bond had never been able to master.

“It’s worth a shot,” Bond said finally. “But absolutely _no_ competition. Remember how well that worked out with that gorgeous Russian assassin?”

Alec’s grin turned a bit wistful. “God, yes. I still say we should’ve stolen the gold and defected with her.”

Bond stood up and cuffed him. “She would have killed us within days, Alec. Now come on. The path to wooing Q lies through TSS.”

“I’m not sharing Q with anyone but you, and I’m bloody well not sharing _myself_ with anyone from TSS,” Alec protested, stubbornly remaining in his seat. “Or are we going to loot the armoury for tear gas? Because _that_ , I’ll happily do.”

Bond stared down at Alec, then shrugged with a grin. “Suit yourself.” Then he turned and headed out.

“Wait one bloody minute!” Alec protested, and Bond hid his grin as he heard Alec get out of his seat. He caught up with Bond at the door and followed him out into the hallway. “What’s this ‘no competition’ bollocks if you’re going to go off on some... wooing plan? Full disclosure, mate.”

“We’re going on an underground adventure, and we’re using a shiny, colourful map to do it. And unless you want to waste time on the research and coding necessary to get the map, we’re outsourcing.”

“Outsourcing. I like that,” Alec approved. “Oh, ah, if any of the TSS geeks ask you a question about an Aspire, you know nothing. Got it?”

“Alec, I _don’t_ know anything.” Bond chuckled and raised his hand when Alec opened his mouth. “And that’s probably the way it should stay, don’t you think?”

“Plausible deniability. Right. You do that, and while they’re distracted, I’ll leave. Trust me. It’ll be fine.”

 

~~~

 

**Tuesday, 15 January 2013**

Q was hiding from the not-married-after-all couple. He was mature enough to admit it to himself — just not to venture out into the front room where he might encounter James, or to go to the cafe where Alec might be lurking. Instead, he was hiding in the server area, headphones on and turned up to maximum volume. Everyone at the hackerspace had learned not to bother him when he had his headphones on, and normally he’d be able to lose himself in his music and coding. Now, though, all he could think of was that he’d made a truly _colossal_ arse of himself.

The fact that his intentions had been good was meaningless. He hadn’t even done the most rudimentary digging to find out anything about James, at least, despite having all of his information in the records.

It was about time he did something about that. The last thing he wanted to do was make things even worse than they already were.

Oh, Alec had been perfectly lovely about it all. Once he’d stopped laughing, of course. He and James weren’t married, but had been friends for twenty years. They just _acted_ as if they were married because they knew each other so damned well. And apparently their work took them into ‘rough places’, as Alec had put it, which explained the bloody, scarred knuckles — along with the breath-stealing physiques they both had.

A review of James’ file showed that he _had_ listed Alec Trevelyan as his emergency contact, which made Q feel a little better. The fact that they had different last names was meaningless; lots of domestic partners and married couples kept separate last names these days, especially if both were professionals. With a sigh, Q closed the file.

He leaned back in the chair, braced a foot against the edge of the desk, and closed his eyes, listening as _Four Three_ by All India Radio started. He expected that James would show up for the lockpicking group tonight, and _that_ would be phenomenally awkward. Q could probably arrange to be elsewhere — Ireland, perhaps — except he was supposed to be demonstrating. It was too late to line up anyone else, and Nova Prospekt Space was looking at entering a competition.

A gentle pressure on his shoulder — not so much a tap as a soft slide of fingertips — made him open his eyes. He tipped his head backwards, putting a hand up so gravity wouldn’t steal his headset.

Then he jerked away and twisted, spinning the chair violently around with a hard kick on the floor. James was standing there, Alec at his side, both of them looking like twin gods of chaos and mischief in T-shirts and blue jeans. Did Alec even _own_ a T-shirt? Q had never seen him in anything but button-downs and wool trousers. And putting him next to James — god, it was unreasonable, quite possibly even _illegal_ for them to do that without at least a warning sign.

Thankfully, neither of them seemed angry. Not that Q was any less embarrassed; he was just glad that they weren’t likely to start yelling. Though they _were_ talking, and Q remembered his noise cancelling headphones, though he debated keeping them on. Maybe if they kept the conversation to sign language, he could keep from making even more of an arse of himself than he already had.

Then James, who had been watching his expression since Q had spun in his chair to look at them, smiled softly. He held up his hand to Alec and slowly reached forward to slide the headphones back over Q’s head to hang around his neck.

“Noise cancelling,” he said to Alec before turning his attention back to Q.

“You’d almost think he doesn’t want to listen to us,” Alec said, giving Q an uncharacteristically gentle, relaxed grin. “I can’t imagine why. We’re very charismatic.”

“Do you have a moment?” James asked, ignoring Alec for the moment. “We brought something for you.”

“Is it rigged to explode?” Q asked before his brain-to-mouth filter kicked in. He spun the chair back around — though not fast enough to avoid seeing Alec’s grin go wider — and turned off the music. Wishing he’d take his own advice and just _stop talking_ , he pulled off the headset and hung it on the corner of the monitor.

“As much as I know you’d enjoy that, we decided to keep it small for now.” James stepped over, back in Q’s line of sight, and held up a plain memory stick. “Well, in a manner of speaking.”

Q took it warily, wondering if they were going to try and do something silly, like have him removed from the board of directors of the hackerspace for inappropriate behaviour. They seemed in an awfully good mood, but that just made Q more suspicious, not less.

He turned to one of the other computers — one that wasn’t on the network — and plugged in the drive. To his surprise, it was a Google SketchUp file with an overlay for Google Maps. He looked back suspiciously, noting that both men were standing far too close behind him, one on either side. He wondered if they did that sort of thing intentionally or if it just came naturally to them. Breathing, oozing charisma and sexuality, intimidation, that sort of thing.

He had to take a deep breath and find his focus before he could open the files.

Then he leaned forward to stare at what looked like the building — _his_ building — complete with a map of tunnels underneath, all of them colour-coded. Sewer access, old pipes for gaslight, the London Underground, storm drains, maintenance tunnels. A click changed the colours to show the evolution of the tunnels at different points. And while the maps were incomplete, they were enough to prove that the discovery of the coal cellar really was an access point to an entire underground world that was _all his_.

James brushed his hand along Q’s shoulder again, leaning in to speak softly by his ear. “My conditions about safety equipment haven’t changed, but if both Alec and I are there, you’re incredibly unlikely to come to any harm.” He straightened and looked down at Q with the same soft smile. “Would you like to go on an adventure with us, Q?”

A small, rational part of Q’s mind suggested that they wanted to take him into the tunnels because it solved the problem of disposing of his body. A much less rational — but also much more substantial — part of his mind had shut down at the hand on his shoulder and the warmth of James’ breath over his ear.

Before he could properly reboot, Alec stepped into view and leaned on the computer desk, hip pressed against Q’s right arm, since he was still clutching the mouse like a lifeline. “It’s definitely better than going alone,” he said in that deep, charming voice of his.

James sighed and spun Q’s chair away from Alec. He crouched down to eye-level, and moved his hand off Q’s chair to rest on his own knees. Q had the impression of someone trying to appear, if not gentle, then at least non-threatening. “I’m sorry I scared you the other night.”

Q cringed inside; of all the things to do today, awkward reconciliation was lower in priority than toxic waste disposal and nuclear fallout cleanup. “Don’t. It’s fine,” he said quickly. It occurred to him that he should probably apologise, since _he_ was the one who’d been wrong about everything, but as he opened his mouth, he felt a light, shivery touch that started with fingertips brushing over his hair and shot right down his spine like an electric current.

He snapped his mouth shut, staring at James, thinking he should probably turn around or say something or at least _do something_ , but James was staring back at him, and now Alec was petting his hair.

It was very possible that Sapphire had spiked his tea. She’d been known to experiment with hallucinogenics.

“There is no way for this not to start off awkward, so I’m just going to barrel through. Q —”

“Oh god, she did, didn’t she?” Q asked, closing his eyes tightly. She’d caught him unawares once before, and though she _swore_ a diluted drop of whatever she’d used shouldn’t have been enough to do more than relax him, he’d spent three hours watching lights move. His coding had been a nightmare; he’d had to restore from the previous day’s backup. “I’m going to have to kill her now.”

“If there is anyone you need killed, I think you should leave it to us,” James said with a chuckle. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. I assure you, there is no ‘she’ in this particular situation.”

“Which either works to our benefit or complicates things immeasurably,” Alec added. His fingers had moved down to the very bottom of Q’s hairline, where the strands tickled over his nape.

Q opened his eyes, thinking to turn and scold Alec for it, but James trapped him all over again, and all Q could think was that there _really_ needed to be a warning label for this.

But really, he was a genius. He should be able to figure out... whatever was going on. And he could have, if not for the human factor complicating things. If they were programs, though, he’d know everything — every little nuance and decision tree and variable.

“I’d ask if this is really happening, but there’s no way to provide irrefutable proof that can’t be manufactured in some way by my own subconscious,” he said.

“We like you, Q. We think you’re bloody incredible, actually. Adorable, and a genius to boot.” James lifted a hand to gently settle on Q’s knee. “How would you feel about giving us a shot?”

“Of what?” Q asked, still thinking of hallucinogens and espresso.

James gave Alec something like an exasperated look before returning his attention to Q. “Between the two of us, we almost make one decent boyfriend.”

“But you’re not —” he started, and then shivered as the hands on him suddenly started to _mean something_.

The problem, of course, was that Q’s mind worked too fast, once it actually gained traction. As soon as he recognised that it was possible — however unlikely — that they were both hitting on _him_ , his mind took the idea and ran with it. He had about a half-second’s worth of mental visuals of just how far ‘boyfriend’ would probably go, which meant the visuals included tactile imaginings that weren’t appropriate even for the privacy of his own bedroom, drapes closed, lights out, much less here and now.

Then, as the electric current shooting down his spine seemed to ground itself in James’ hand on his knee, taking the obvious path through Q’s body to get there, Q’s mind didn’t just run with the idea so much as pack it away for a round-the-world holiday cruise. There was no _possible_ way it could work without probably killing him at the very least, if they all didn’t kill each other from personality conflict or something, but dear god, it sounded like a bloody fantastic way to die.

He said something. He suspected it was ‘Um’.

Looking a little concerned, James brushed his thumb lightly over Q’s knee. “Do you like the map? You don’t have to take us both, but you do have to take one of us. There’s no way you’re going down there by yourself.”

“Are you —” he began. Then he swallowed and leaned back a bit, which pushed his neck back against Alec’s hand and slid his knee forward against James, which had a distinctly unhelpful effect on his thoughts. “Going where for what?” he asked, thinking it very important that he get clarification on that part.

“Down through the door in your cellar. To explore.” James smirked. “We worked very hard on compiling what maps we could find of the tunnels within several kilometres of this building. I brought my safety equipment, and Alec brought comms in case we get separated. Consider it a first date.” James cleared his throat and shot another look at Alec. “If you’d like to, of course.”

A first date. With one of them. Or with _both of them_.

“We’ll even take you to dinner afterwards,” Alec said, fingers slipping down that last quarter inch to touch bare skin. “Though if we’re filthy with coal dust, it might have to be takeaway.”

“I’m... I’m not saying _no_ ,” Q said very, very carefully, and he was ridiculously proud that his voice was steady and calm. “The — the dating would work, how?”

James settled a little more comfortably into his crouch. “We haven’t talked about it very in-depth, but we have agreed to a strict ‘no competition’ policy. We also work out of town a lot, for long stretches at a time — some of which will overlap. So there may be points when you’re overloaded with attention from both of us, and other times when neither of us is around. But we hope that, on the whole, it will balance out.”

 _Timeshare_ , Q thought somewhat madly. He let out a rough, slightly desperate laugh. “I don’t even — _We_ don’t even know each other,” he said, finally turning away from James to look back at Alec, feeling as if he were being left out of the conversation.

Obligingly, Alec walked around the side of the chair, though his hand never left the back of Q’s neck. “If it doesn’t work out, no harm done. But James and I have been working together for more than half our lives.”

“Dating together?” Q asked a bit sharply, wondering suddenly if this was something they’d done before rather than being something new and special.

“Well, no,” Alec admitted, looking to James.

“You’re special,” James said with a lopsided grin. “We both like you, but we didn’t want to fight it out or make you choose, so this seemed an optimal solution.” He paused, and his smile turned a little more wicked. “We could be very, very good to you, Q.”

How was this _at all_ sane? The answer, of course, was that it wasn’t. And they were presenting it more as a logical argument than some sort of grand emotional declaration... which was sort of comforting, actually. He’d been _attracted_ to them both, but he’d tried to shove all of that aside because they were married. Only they weren’t.

“Why are you both away so much?” he asked, a hint of suspicion lingering. He didn’t think they were deceiving him; things like this simply _didn’t happen_. Not to him, at any rate.

“International consulting company,” Alec said. “They tend to send us out of town at a moment’s notice.”

James rocked back on his heels and looked up Q. “So, what do you think?”

“I think this is the most mad thing I’ve ever heard,” he admitted, aware of how uncharacteristically baffled he still sounded. “Do people _do_ this?”

“We’re proposing climbing down a mountain of coal to go into possibly deadly tunnels under London as a first bloody date, Q,” Alec pointed out. “There’s nothing about this that’s _done_ by anyone but us.”

“God, that actually makes sense.” Q took off his glasses and let them dangle between his fingers as he pressed his palms to his eyes. He was certain there was some better way to respond, something more romantic or socially appropriate, but he couldn’t begin to think of what. He’d never seen a romantic comedy in his life, other than previews before films featuring much more satisfying explosions and alien races.

But he was logical and a genius and couldn’t for the life of him think of any reason to refuse. He didn’t _want_ to refuse. So he nodded without looking at either of them, finished rubbing at his eyes, and put his glasses back on. He didn’t poke himself in the eye only due to long practice. “All right.”

“Try not to sound so enthusiastic,” James said, though he grinned impishly at Q. He braced both hands on Q’s, squeezing them lightly before standing. The grin never left his face.

Q couldn’t help but smile in response; god, the man had a gorgeous smile that turned his eyes from ice to pure fire. He looked back and saw damn near the same smile on Alec’s face.

“This... this isn’t a competition,” he warned, remaining in his seat for now. He wasn’t entirely certain he could stand; and even if he could, he was positive he wouldn’t _stay_ standing. “I’m not some prize to be fought over. I don’t _do_ jealousy.”

“Neither do we,” James said with a light shrug. “Who has time for that sort of thing? In any case, it would be incredibly self-defeating.” Then his expression grew a bit more serious. “I can’t promise that there won’t be... glitches. Alec and I haven’t exactly done anything like this before, so there are inevitably going to be things that require careful thought and navigation.” He shot a dark grin at Alec. “Or, at least, our version of it. But I think it’s going to be worth it.”

 _Alec and I haven’t exactly done anything like this before_. The words helped Q find his balance as a new thought came to him — not just that this was a first for all of them, but that _he_ was the reason. That was... exhilarating. Empowering. And it made all of this far less intimidating, turning it from two-against-one, in a way, to the three of them all fumbling blindly into new territory.

There had to be websites on this sort of thing.

“Let me go get my boots,” he said, getting to his feet — and thankfully, he didn’t fall right back down, despite the proximity of two men who were suddenly very, very much _there_.

James stepped a little closer to Q, grin turning into a softer smile. He brought up a hand and brushed it feather-light across Q’s cheekbone. “Thank you for giving us a chance.”

Very much there and very, very _real_. Alec was standing close, but James was closer, and Q suddenly wanted to kiss them — _them!_ — but had no idea how to start. Who should he kiss first? Would whoever he didn’t choose take offence? Was there some secret way to decide, only they weren’t telling Q, as if testing to see what he’d do? He didn’t want either of them left out or to feel pushed aside or neglected, but he suspected that proposing a random number generator — something simple that he could whip up on a command prompt in about twenty keystrokes — would get him laughed out of his own hackerspace.

“Oh, for god’s sake,” Alec said on a sigh. “Kiss him already, James, before he has a bloody heart attack.”

Mercifully, James didn’t laugh or smirk. He simply stepped closer, and, careful to move slowly (in case Q wanted to object, he assumed), he leaned in. The first pressure of James’ lips on his was nothing more than a light brush — light but not tentative. Then James pressed a little harder and nipped at Q’s bottom lip lightly, sliding his hand to the base of Q’s neck to pull him closer for something deeper.

The nervous tension melted away, because James was an _impossibly_ good kisser. He wasn’t all messy and irritating, like Q’s last girlfriend, and he wasn’t tentative or uncertain, like the hacker he’d picked up after a convention a few months ago. He was focused, every brush of his lips or sweep of his tongue intent and purposeful, as if he’d already mapped out a plan to learn what Q liked and didn’t. That or he was psychic, because he found damned near everything that Q enjoyed, from the way he’d nip just enough to sting to the light touch with just the tip of his tongue instead of licking like an overenthusiastic golden retriever.

When it ended, naturally and calmly, Q was tingling down to his toes and no longer half so worried that this would all go up in flames. James stepped back, and he looked from Q’s face to over his shoulder, right before Alec’s hand pressed to the small of Q’s back. Q turned right into Alec’s arms, and then _he_ was kissing Q with the same type of experimental exploration as James, only _different_. His mouth was a bit smaller, lips softer, and the press of his jaw was rougher with more stubble. His hand combed through Q’s hair, toying with the strands.

God, it was ridiculously inappropriate for Q to be cataloguing and comparing, wasn’t it? Not that he could help it — that was how his mind worked — but he was determined not to set up some sort of mental ranking criteria for his two ( _two!_ ) boyfriends.

Of course, when Alec finally released him, the aftermath of their kisses combined to leave Q feeling just a bit dizzy and overwhelmed. This wasn’t something he’d easily survive with his sanity intact, but to his surprise, he was just fine with that.

Still, he needed room to breathe and process. If he let them kiss him again, he would end up doing something inexcusable, like trying to shag them both here in his hackerspace server pen —

 _Those_ images flashed in his head, stopping his breath. Because while he could see an easy way to manage the complexity of three partners if one were female, the alternative for the three of them was suddenly a bit too much. It wasn’t that he didn’t like being the focus of attention in bed, but everything he could think of came perilously close to uncomfortable levels of promiscuity.

“Are we — That is, I’m not quite —” he said, resisting the urge to back away and get himself enough space to breathe. “ _All_ of us, at the same time, is...”

James took a step back and to the side so he could see Q’s face. For the first time during the entire, crazy discussion, he actually looked slightly uncertain. “We’d rather not, to be honest.” His gaze flicked to Alec and back to Q again. “We’re friends, and have been for a long time, but that’s it.” Then his grin shifted into something more crooked and playful. “It would just turn into an argument over who gets the blankets or who breathes the loudest when he sleeps, and that is decidedly not sexy.”

“Besides, I cheat,” Alec added. “I’d just push him out of the bed.”

Q laughed, the sound a little strained, though it was relief rather than any new tension. So this was _just_ about sex and not something more complicated, which made it all much, much easier to mentally handle. “All right. I’ll just —” He cut off, because he had his boots in his flat, of course, but no one knew that he lived here. Should he tell James and Alec, though? If they were going to be in a relationship, best not to try and deceive them. But if this was just about sex, then it would be all the more awkward if he brought them here, to his bed, even if it was one at a time.

No, he decided. His flat would remain the sanctuary that he was trying to create. This was sex, not marriage, and it would eventually end. Besides, he needed his privacy. His last girlfriend had been clingy and possessive, demanding a key to his old house and a drawer, filling the bathroom with bottles and soaps and her toothbrush and hairbrushes, until he’d finally snapped. Twice that amount of intrusion would drive him crazy all the faster.

Then he recalled that the members knew he kept overflow storage upstairs. He just didn’t have to say he’d be running up two extra flights of stairs, rather than just climbing the ladder. “I have boots upstairs, in storage. Let me go get them.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Tuesday, 15 January 2013**

Bond and Alec glared down into the dark hole in the floor, slowly feeding the rope out, over the sound of rattling coal. “Stubborn little bastard,” Alec muttered softly, unhappily, when Bond looked back at him.

Sending a civilian with no training and unknown capabilities into potential danger went against every instinct the two field agents had. Q had proved to be surprisingly stubborn, though, and had neatly cut through every one of their objections. He was smaller, accustomed to working in confined spaces, and in charge of the hackerspace — though he didn’t come right out and say that he also lived here.

Bond personally didn’t see the attraction of willingly venturing into the underground — in fact, he hoped that Q would go down, see how dirty and boring and utterly uninteresting it probably was, and come right back up. As long as there wasn’t any interesting old tech to capture Q’s imagination, Bond hoped that the darkness might finally kickstart Q’s lacklustre sense of self-preservation.

A rat running across his feet wouldn’t be amiss, either.

“See anything interesting yet?” he asked Q quietly, hoping that the comms they’d brought for this purpose were at least as good as the ones TSS issued. Of course, when he’d given the radio unit over to Q, he’d got a sharp-eyed look in return, and he wondered if handing even old MI6 tech to a genius was a wise idea. It wasn’t one of the compact micro-earwigs, but a more conventional belt transmitter/battery pack with a wired earpiece. Still, it wasn’t exactly the type of walkie-talkie used by hobbyists.

“The room’s three metres by four, I’d guess,” Q answered, his voice bright and full of excitement. Alec gave Bond a resigned half-smile. “I can’t see the delivery chute for the coal — logically, it’s under the old pile. I’m going for the door. You can come down, if you’d like. I’m taking off the belay line. The floor’s stable enough.”

“Q, you shouldn’t —” was as far as Alec got before the line in their hands went slack.

“Q,” Bond warned sharply. “Wait for us. Don’t go through that door without us, without the harness.”

“I’m not about to leap blindly through,” Q scolded with a little laugh. “I’m just — Bloody old hinges.” There was a grunt followed by a loud, sharp _clang_. “Come down. You haven’t got all those muscles just so you can look pretty. May as well be of use.”

“Well, that’s all right, then,” Alec said, already tying off two more lines. Without someone to anchor them up top, too many was better than too few. “As long as we’re pretty.”

Bond tossed the lines into the hole as Alec finished tying them off. He took his work gloves out of his back pocket and tugged them on, smirking at Alec. “You’re the one with the long hair, Alec. I’m sure he meant that you’re pretty. I’m just handsome.” He gave his line a sharp pull, just to see Alec’s grimace, and started his backward descent into the shaft.

The pile of coal was now almost entirely vertical, thanks to Q’s descent. Bond didn’t kick to gain a foothold; he climbed down, feeling the strain in his shoulders, though in a good way — a physical stretch reminding him that his body was just as much a weapon as his mind. He lowered himself hand-over-hand until his toes touched the ground, though even then he didn’t let go. Only when his feet were on solid ground and not coal debris did he release the rope and tell Alec, “Clear!”

Then he got out of Alec’s way and turned to look around.

The room was a remnant two centuries out of time, with stone walls and a low ceiling. Thankfully the hole in the workshop floor had allowed some fresh air to replace whatever might have degassed from the coal. Just the thought made Bond’s stomach flip. If things had gone badly for Q, he might have set off an errant spark with the jackhammer he’d used to cut the hole in the cement floor overhead, and he could have ended up dead.

Q was crouched by the half-height metal door. He had a small prybar in his hand and was scraping at the rust. “You know, this could be a furnace and not a tunnel access at all,” he said disappointedly over the sound of Alec starting his descent, “though I can’t imagine why they would’ve built it into the wall.”

Bond made a considering, sympathetic noise, though he secretly wouldn’t have been disappointed if that were the case. He walked over and crouched next to Q. “Shall I put my pretty muscles to good use?” He grinned and held his hand out for the prybar. Bond had brought his usual array of tools in the rucksack strapped to his back — lights, a variety of handguns (including a .22 for the rats and a .45 for anything larger), a first aid kit, extra gloves, and a variety of knives and tools — but he was content to take weapons of possible harm from Q if the opportunity presented itself. Bond could just see Q trying to wrench the prybar too hard, only to have it slip and injure him. He briefly wondered if Q was up to date on his tetanus shots.

Q handed over the prybar without protest. “Thanks,” he added, his smile brief and shy. He got out of the way and called, “Do you need help, Alec?”

“Oh yes, never done this before,” Alec said with a laugh moments before Bond heard his boots hit the floor. “What have we got, then?”

“Hopefully more than just a furnace,” Q answered.

Bond turned his attention to the door, feeling along the edges. He secretly doubted it was just a furnace door — the level of oxidation on the hinges was the same as on the handle and other metal components. The lack of extra wear on the hinges indicated the door hadn’t been opened very frequently, which was unlikely to be the case if it were the furnace. It was only a moment’s indecision to set the prybar down and go for his new lockpicks instead; he’d rather not remove the door completely if he could help it.

“How did you get interested in lockpicking?” Q asked, leaning over Bond’s shoulder.

“A misspent youth?” he said with the crooked grin he was learning Q favoured. It took him all of forty-five seconds to tease the lock free.

“If you’d like to learn, I can teach you,” Q said to Alec. “You made two sets of picks, right, James?”

“My best effort yet,” Bond said proudly, holding up the near-perfect Bogota pick he’d coaxed into existence. He had MI6-issued picks, of course, but no field agent would trust commercial picks, even ones made to government specs. “I’ve made them using everything from coat hangers to bra underwires, but a good quality hand-worked steel is so much better.”

“I would love to learn,” Alec answered, and Bond could hear the grin in his voice.

“There’s a demonstration — well, someone else will run it. I’m not going back up until we’re done here,” Q said cheerfully. “Go on, James. Open the door.”

Bond laughed, not sparing a glance for Alec’s probably disappointed expression. He pulled the lock free and swung the door open. He ducked, letting his headlamp shine into the space beyond.

It definitely wasn’t a furnace; it was another chamber, perhaps one that had once connected to the building next door, if Bond was judging the space correctly. A quick sweep of the room showed some pieces of coal and what looked like a broken shovel. Unfortunately, there was also a gaping hole in the floor, one that led down to precisely the type of empty, unexplored space that would surely catch Q’s interest.

Then Q leaned down on his shoulder and pushed into the doorway beside Bond. “Oh, fantastic,” he breathed, muting Bond’s sudden pleasure at the physical contact with the knowledge that Q _would_ be going down there, whether Bond liked it or not.

“Not another step until we check your map and get the ropes down here,” Bond said with a chuckle. “And someday you’re going to explain to me just how you managed to skip learning that dark holes that lead god-knows-where aren’t good.” He looked around for somewhere he could anchor another set of ropes, and he eyed the half-buried support beam at the back wall speculatively.

Q gave him a sympathetic look that didn’t quite hide the excitement still lurking in his eyes. “If you don’t want to come, you don’t have to. You could stay back here and hold the ropes.”

Bond turned and stared at Q. “Right. I think not.” He cast a look at Alec, who was struggling not to laugh as he double-checked the first set of knots, before heading to the support beam to start tying of the next round of ropes.

“I just know some people don’t do well in confined spaces, the dark, underground, all that,” Q said, picking up one of the trailing ends of the rope. He started tying off a carabiner to it. “I honestly doubt we’ll find anything — Er, are either of you afraid of rats?”

Alec made a strangled noise and leaned against the support post. “I’m not,” he said, and threw a mad grin at Bond, who knew that Alec was remembering the two — _two_ — occasions when they’d been stuck eating the blasted things while waiting for exfiltration. “You, James?”

“They make better target practice than hard drives,” Bond said to Q with a grin, taking the carabiner away and securing it himself. Q shot him a quick, dark look but let him take it. Bond resisted the urge to throw a rock at Alec, just for the hell of it, and as a distraction from the question of just how long they’d be able to keep the true nature of their jobs from Q. It was hard enough with one, he realised — being around two operatives and listening the stories and banter they shared as easily as ammo might present a larger security problem than he’d considered. Particularly, Bond realised, given Q’s inquisitive nature; Bond wondered how long it would be before one of them was forced to draw a gun to keep Q safe. He resolved to have a conversation with Alec about it when they got back.

Q took the tied-off carabiner from Bond and clipped it to the loop at the front of his harness. “Look,” he said, turning to face them both, “I’ve done this sort of thing before — urban exploration. There’s really no need to be this concerned. This is probably much safer than most buildings I’ve explored, in fact.”

Bond couldn’t hold back his laugh this time, though he tried to smother it in the crook of his arm. “I’m sure you’re very experienced,” he said when he was sure he was done not-laughing. “Wait, did you check the map? It can be very helpful to know what we’re dropping ourselves into. Just in case we need to be aware of oncoming trains or other minor details.”

With a still-suspicious stare, Q reached into his pack and took out his tablet computer. He powered it on — and while his back was turned, Bond shot a look at Alec, who quirked a brow and came over to watch. Ignoring them both, Q pulled up the maps that TSS had provided.

“It synced to my server, so we don’t have to worry about not having a wi-fi signal. Please don’t assume —” He cut off and shook his head, significantly offering the tablet to Bond.

Then, without waiting for an answer, he climbed through the doorway and dropped to all fours, feeling his way cautiously towards the hole in the floor.

Alec touched Bond’s shoulder and twisted his hand in a silent, questioning motion. Then he pointed at Q. Bond translated it as: _What do we do with him?_

Bond shrugged, tapped where he’d normally have his shoulder holster in place, and jabbed a thumb at his rucksack. _Be prepared to shoot something if we need to._

Alec nodded a bit grimly, ducked, and forced his way through the doorway that was almost too narrow for his shoulders. He gave an experimental tug on his line, verifying its integrity, before he surreptitiously took hold of Q’s line, bracing himself.

Q’s voice echoed in the empty chamber beyond as he said, “I’m going down, slowly. You can join me or not, as you choose. I’ll keep the radio on.” Then Q’s line went tight under his weight, and Bond heard a clattering sound from up ahead. “The edge is unstable,” Q warned. “It looks like it’s four metres down, maybe a bit more.”

“Watch for the edge crumbling and dropping you suddenly,” Alec warned, and though his voice sounded light and casual, Bond could see the strain in his expression.

Bond sighed and carefully started his descent. He knew that separately, both he and Alec had a habit of being overly protective of any of their partners that lasted for longer than the typical one-night or one-weekend stands that they tended to stick to. It was harder to control that instinct than one might assume, he decided — particularly given that neither of them (or any Double O, for that matter) had much luck keeping their partners _both_ happy and safe for any length of time. In fact, given that there were two Double O’s to one civilian in this particular case, the statistics started to look downright grim.

Bond made a mental note to add that to the list of things to talk to Alec about. It would segue nicely in a conversation with Q about the nature of their jobs and the need to pay better attention to personal security.

He was just considering how to approach the subject of changing Q’s locks and upgrading his security system — perhaps presenting it as a technical challenge rather than an overbearing bit of protectiveness would make it easier — when he landed next to Q.

Bond resisted the urge to draw his gun from his rucksack only because he recognised it was habit compelling him, rather than any sense of actual danger. He did a quick sweep, keeping Q next to him as he spun in a quick but careful circle, before he said “Clear, Alec. Ground’s stable; watch the shaft, though.”

Alec clicked the mic twice to acknowledge out of habit — something else Bond noted they’d need to avoid doing. Q was too clever; he’d already be picking up on their behavioural anomalies.

They’d dropped down into what looked like an old Underground station. The roof was steeply curved; the top of the curve had given way, naturally at the highest point in the ceiling.

When he turned back, he saw Q was already heading down the dark tunnel, and he tried not to rush after the slender figure, knowing that Q’s patience with their overprotective attitude would only last so long.

Bond tucked his carabiner in his pocket and walked quietly but purposefully towards Q, who was getting too far away for comfort. Bond was forcefully reminded of boarding school art lessons when he used rulers to create a vanishing point for train tracks on glaringly white paper. His stomach twisted, but he brushed it aside in favour of reminding himself that Q was unlikely to actually vanish into obscurity like the pencil lines on paper.

“What is it about this that you find so fascinating in particular?” Bond asked when he caught up to Q. He was careful to use a calm, quiet, and inquisitive voice, wary of aggravating Q further.

“No one’s been here for... probably at least seventy years. Perhaps longer,” Q said, crouching down to study the tracks. “What drives us to study the pyramids? Burial mounds? Old castles and Palaeolithic caves?”

Alec caught up, and Bond noted that he’d unbuckled his climbing harness and opened his jacket, giving him faster access to the gun hidden at the small of his back. “This is London, not Egypt.”

“That just makes it convenient.” Q rose and started walking again.

“Is it the human history or the technological history that fascinates you?” Bond asked, glancing around. “Given that the last use of tunnels like these was probably to act as bomb shelters, I’m not sure that I particularly want to think about that aspect of their history too closely.” He had the sudden mental image of women and children crouching along the walls, some crying, some eerily silent, as bombs went off overhead. He shivered, all but hearing the echo of their fear in the cavernous space.

Q let out a frustrated sigh and shook his head. “Have you ever been here?” he asked as he stopped and turned to face Bond.

“No,” Bond said, looking at Q with surprise.

“Precisely.” Q turned and went back to walking, headlamp sweeping over the walls and floor ahead as he looked around.

Bond sighed and followed, wondering just how much travelling Q had done, if any. Bond hadn’t been _here_ , in this particular tunnel, before, but he’d been in places like it. Too many to count, in fact. But he didn’t say anything and followed Q, determined to try and let some of Q’s enthusiasm spark something for Bond himself. Even if he couldn’t find fascination with the tunnel in the same way Q could, he could certainly find delight in Q’s sense of wonder.

Alec touched his arm and silently gave the ‘okay’ sign, ending with a questioning twist. He looked no happier about this than Bond, even though he’d been keeping quiet.

Bond took the tablet from where he’d tucked it in an inner jacket pocket. He pulled up the map, and, estimating how far they’d come in the direction he was certain they were travelling, made an educated guess about where they were going. It took only a few moments’ calculation to realise they were heading toward the river.

Bond traced the tunnel they were in on the tablet for Alec to see, then handed it over. Then he let Alec and Q get a little further ahead of him so he could stop and, pretending to pull an extra torch from the rucksack, grab his .45 from the bag. He tucked it into his waistband, pulled his coat over it (though he didn’t zip it) and slung the rucksack back on his shoulders before jogging to catch back up.

“We’re heading toward the river,” he said quietly, eyes forward. “Watch for an increase in the rat population.”

“You’ve done outdoor climbing, haven’t you?” Q asked without looking back.

“James is something of an expert at that,” Alec said.

“And how does an ‘international consultant’ come to have the orienteering skills to read a three-dimensional map with virtually no references and no compass?”

“Orienteering is really just the ability to master spatial awareness, with a competent sense of direction. People like you and me are good with things like detailed maps, Q. It’s why we can build circuit boards from scratch,” Bond replied. It wasn’t a lie, but it did manage to skirt the issue nicely. He hoped Q would latch onto it without question, though he secretly thought he should know better.

“And yet, it feels as if you don’t want to be here — either of you.” He glanced back over his shoulder at them, though he didn’t turn enough to blind them with his headlamp. “I’m perfectly fine doing this alone. There’s probably nothing here that will be of interest to either of you.”

“We really aren’t the type to do things unwillingly,” Alec said. “A bit stubborn for that.”

“Your enthusiasm leaves a great deal to be desired.”

Well, that was certainly true, but there wasn’t much Bond could do about it. “We’re overly cautious people by nature _and_ experience, Q. But please don’t mistake situational awareness for disinterest.” Bond wished that Q could see his smile without blinding him. “Even if I’m not excited by the tunnel itself, I find _your_ enthusiasm absurdly delightful.”

Q almost turned back to look at him, but then gave a little shake of his head and went back to walking. Alec nudged at Bond’s arm and shrugged wryly, though Q’s nearby presence forced him to remain silent.

Bond resisted the urge to sigh again and continued to follow Q with silent caution. As much of a good idea as it had seemed at the time, Bond was now beginning to question it. Perhaps an abandoned building in greater London would have been better. Less dark, less threatening, and with more interesting architecture to actually discuss. But without any of that to focus on here, he remained silent and kept a watchful eye.

 

~~~

 

If this was how James and Alec thought to impress him, they were on the wrong track, Q thought a bit ungraciously as he headed down the tunnel. Yes, they’d provided perfectly good gear that had allowed for two safe descents, and yes, it was always safer to explore with a partner rather than alone, but god, it wasn’t as if he was forcing them here at gunpoint.

Q didn’t need to run a hackerspace. Sometimes, in fact, he thought it would be more convenient if he didn’t, simply because of all the paperwork and insurance hassle and safety inspections. He did it, though, to surround himself with that spark of innovation and creativity — to watch that moment when excitement and inspiration struck, to see the satisfaction of an idea that came to life.

He could have brought any of the other members, if he chose not to go alone. He probably wouldn’t have taken that second descent on his own, in fact. He would’ve climbed back up, maybe sent down a reconnaissance camera, and gathered a group of experienced, _enthusiastic_ explorers.

He hoped like hell that James and Alec were at least better at sex than they were at urban exploration. God, was it possible that the two of them had proposed this unthinkable three-party arrangement and yet were _boring_?

With Q’s luck, that would be the case.

Well, he wasn’t marrying them. He could live with a night of boring sex — two nights of it, in fact. And not entirely boring. If nothing else, they were by far more attractive than Q’s usual partners.

As they got nearer where Q assumed the river would be, he found what he’d been looking for: a hatch in the floor. He unholstered his mobile and pulled off his headlamp, winding the strap around his wrist a few times so that the beam pointed at the floor.

“What’s that, then?” Alec asked, though rather than stopping to look, he advanced a few steps past Q, only glancing at the hatch before he looked down the tunnel instead.

“If memory serves,” James said with a hint of resignation in his voice as he turned to face the direction they’d come from, “it’s an access hatch to the sewers.”

Q glanced at them both, wondering what the hell they were doing. He could almost imagine they were standing guard, watching for threats, and a little hint of apprehension crept through him. Precisely what kind of consulting work did they do, anyway? He’d have to find out. Fortunately, he could find out _anything_ , given enough time and computing power.

He said nothing; instead, he snapped a photo of the hatch, trying to recapture his sense of enthusiasm. With the identifying marks cast onto the hatch, he’d be able to find out more about the age of the tunnel and possibly ferret out if there was something else to be found down here.

For now, though, there was no point in continuing — not with James and Alec obviously so uncomfortable with the idea of being down here. He wanted to continue and see if the next station was where their map said it was, but he’d prefer to take his time at it, and he had a feeling that the others would find a way to rush him through his exploration. So he’d head back to the building, do a bit of research, and then return to the tunnels later tonight or tomorrow, either alone or with more appropriate company.

“I think that’s enough for today,” he said unconvincingly, and walked past James as he holstered his mobile. He rubbed at his forehead — the headlamp was anything but comfortable, even with the foam padding — and then started unwinding the lamp from his wrist.

“You’re not interested in seeing the station?” James asked with some surprise. “I thought that was the objective of our... adventure.”

Q pushed aside the irritation, telling himself James probably didn’t mean to sound so condescending about it. So what if this wasn’t scaling some bloody cliff or whatever type of climbing he did?

“Is that what you two want to do?” he asked instead, turning back towards them, though he kept his attention on untangling the headlamp strap.

“Absolutely,” James said firmly. “I’ve seen some fascinating photographs of abandoned Tube stations. Posters from the fifties and sixties lining the walls, or impressive tile murals, that sort of thing.” He turned and laid a gentle hand on Q’s shoulder. “It should be interesting.”

Q had no idea if he was genuinely enthusiastic — out of nowhere — or if James was just humouring him. God, he really was rubbish at dealing with people. But logic won out, in the end, and he turned back the way they’d been going, heading for the station. He _did_ want to see what was there, and if the other two didn’t feel like going, they could bloody well say so or deal with it.


	6. Chapter 6

**Tuesday, 15 January 2013**

“Did you know that the deepest tunnel that we know of in the London Underground is the shaft at Hampstead? It’s just over fifty-five metres deep.” Bond cast a glance at Alec and grinned. “That’s the same height as the Buddha statue at Bayman in Afghanistan was.”

“Which we both saw, before it was blown up,” Alec added. When Bond shot him a glare, he shrugged a bit blankly. His smile was a bit forced as he asked Q, “Have you travelled much?”

“When necessary,” Q answered without lowering his mobile. He snapped another picture of the tiled wall, turned a few degrees, and then waited for the camera to focus before doing it again.

Bond raised an eyebrow but kept his gaze focused on the darkness behind them. He wondered why someone who obviously liked to explore new places would sound so very unenthusiastic about travel. “What in particular about it don’t you like?” he asked curiously.

“Flying.” Q continued taking pictures for the panoramic shot he’d said he’d build later.

“You don’t like flying?” Alec asked from where he was trying to casually look down the tunnel at the far side of the platform.

“I don’t like pilots.”

Bond looked curiously at him. “May I ask why?”

“Pilots are humans, and inherently flawed.” Q snapped a few more pictures and then holstered his mobile before he went to the iron fence installed at the end of the platform near Alec. It was obviously a late addition meant to permanently close off the space. Q took hold of it and gave a hard shake, but it seemed firmly bolted into place. With a sigh, he aimed his headlamp between the bars and looked up a flight of stairs.

“What’s the matter?” Bond asked, coming to stand next Q. “Oh. We can take care of that. Alec?” He gave him a sharp nod to indicate that he wasn’t going to be watching the way back to the hackerspace anymore. When Alec met his eyes and drifted towards the centre of the platform, where he could better watch both sides of the tunnels, Bond crouched to look at the bolts that kept the iron in place. Ideally, he didn’t want to permanently disable the gate — it was actually a comfort to see it in place.

“We have two options. Option one is to temporarily remove the barrier — though I’d rather repair it as soon as possible when we’re done. The other option is to scout that staircase and see if we could get to the station more easily from another access point.” He tilted his head to grin at Q. “Dealer’s choice.”

He was disappointed to see that the suspicion was still there in Q’s eyes, though not quite as much as had been there before. He looked at the bolts holding the gate in place before he closed his eyes, a slight frown appearing as he considered. His fingers flexed and stretched against the bars, idly petting the black metal.

“Leave it, for now,” he said, crouching down. He took off his rucksack and started searching through it.

“Ground-level” — Alec faltered for an instant — “search?” Bond was relieved that he hadn’t said reconnaissance; he knew they were both thinking it.

“Eventually.” Q took out a roll of black electrician’s tape.

“Alec and I don’t mind taking down the barrier, as long as you don’t mind that we’ll return to put it back up,” Bond said encouragingly. He was faintly disappointed that they had got this far, only to be stopped by a bit of relatively flimsy metal. Iron was heavy, but it was old and likely rusted; Bond was fairly certain he’d be able to pop the bolts with the strategic application of his heavier crowbar and a (hopefully impressive) display of muscle. He turned to look for the grin that he knew Alec would be sporting at the prospect of demolition. “Right, Alec?”

“We can take care of it easily,” Alec offered with the predicted grin. Then he frowned and asked, “What are you doing?”

“Marking the gate,” Q said. Bond turned to see him wrapping the electrical tape around the lowest bolt on the near side of the fence. He bent closer and smoothed the tape almost flat, though he left a ridge that ran horizontally across the head of the bolt. “I’ll know it from the other side.”

Alec shot Bond a suspicious look. That was the type of marker either of them would leave, but certainly not something a civilian should have thought up, no matter how brilliant that civilian was.

“Clever idea,” Bond said easily, watching Q’s face. “Where did you learn how to do that?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Q asked as he put away the tape and rose. He shrugged the rucksack straps back into place. “A visible mark would show someone’s been here. No one would think to stick a hand in and feel the lowest bolt — not with the middle four more conveniently placed.” He started towards the tracks.

Bond straightened and hoisted his rucksack back to his shoulders. “I’m just a little surprised you didn’t use a chalk ‘X’ just for the potential humour of it,” he said more lightly. “As you said, we’re probably the only ones who have been down here for decades.”

Q gave him a puzzled little frown but waited for them both to catch up. “Chalk would wash away. There are traces of moisture in the grout. It could be humidity, or the tunnel might flood on occasion.”

“Right, of course.” Bond smiled, then let his grin turn puckish. “Are you absolutely certain you wouldn’t like me to take it down? I assure you, it’s no trouble. A small thing to make it to the end of tonight’s adventure.”

“You really haven’t done this before, have you?” Q stopped and shook his head. “The point isn’t to destroy anything. If it was a gate, fine — it’s easy enough to pick the locks or even cut a chain. There’s no way to take those bolts out without leaving a trace, and we have no equipment to fix them back into place. Prying them out will damage the wall, and anyone who looks will know someone’s been here. If we can’t find the other side, we’ll reevaluate — and there’s the rest of the tunnel to explore, some other time.”

Bond stared at Q for a long moment before he broke out into a grin. He realised where they’d been diverging this whole time — and it had nothing to do with just the simple changes in language he and Alec had been making. _Reconnaissance_ wasn’t the same thing as _exploration_ at all. The point wasn’t to get to an end goal, to push through whatever unpleasant path it took to get to where they were going. It was to examine, to investigate, to look for a connection to the past without destroying it. Q didn’t simply want to get through the tunnels to check out the station. He wanted to admire and preserve — to observe without leaving his own mark.

“Industrial archaeology. That’s fantastic,” he said with honest appreciation and more than a little admiration for Q’s restraint.

Q’s smile felt a bit forced, though at least it was there. “If we hurry, we’ll make it back for the end of the lockpicking group. There’s a rumour of a competition coming up soon sponsored by Sparrows — a Canadian manufacturer.”

“Sparrows?” Alec asked sharply, shooting Bond a quick, startled look. Not three months ago, they’d both been given prototype handcuff keys shaped into T-bar cufflinks designed by Sparrows.

“A lockpick manufacturer, Alec, not a bird,” Bond said smoothly, wishing Alec would start to remember that they were with a civilian. By all rights, someone like Alec — an international consultant who couldn’t make his own lockpicks — shouldn’t know anything about a manufacturer like Sparrows. “Sounds interesting. What’s the competition, exactly? And what’s the prize?”

“No idea. Last time I heard about one, I think the prize was a snap gun,” Q said as he started down the tracks, heading back towards their entry point. “It was before Nova Prospekt. There’s some effort to get lockpicking recognised as a competition sport, rather than just a hobby.”

“Interesting,” he answered distractedly, wondering just what Q had done before he’d become director of the hackerspace. He’d assumed that Q had been a self-employed coder, but the tape trick had him reconsidering. In fact, it now seemed like a monumentally neglectful error that neither he nor Alec had bothered to run a full background check on Q before approaching him for this odd relationship they’d tentatively started exploring. “What did you do before you ran Nova Prospekt?”

“Freelance programmer,” Q said with an uncomfortable little twitch. “And I’m just one of the directors. I don’t _run_ the hackerspace. The board meetings are the first Sunday night of the month, I think.”

Bond felt the first pang of irritation with Q, though he tried valiantly not to show it. The skittishness, suspicion, and twitchiness were traits he was used to in fellow spies, assassins, and marks, but not a fellow member of the Commonwealth. It wasn’t fair for him to be annoyed with Q — he had his own secrets to keep, after all — but it was starting to wear on him. Bond sighed and started walking forward purposefully. He wanted to ask more questions, but didn’t want to run into any more walls, so he kept silent.

No one said a word, in fact, until they were back at the ropes hanging down from the ceiling. Q put a booted foot on the pile of debris that had collapsed down and took hold of one of the ropes, though he didn’t immediately start his climb back up.

“I’m not certain that this is a good idea,” he finally said, avoiding looking at either Bond or Alec. “If you’re — If it’s something casual, perhaps. But it’s obvious we have different interests.”

“I suppose it wasn’t the best first date I’ve ever managed,” Bond said with a wry grin, though he felt deeply, terribly disappointed. There wasn’t much for it, however — he was inclined to agree with Q.

Bond knew himself — he was observant, protective, and prone to long silences. He didn’t do enthusiastic the way Q did, and Q deserved someone who could bring out that sparkle in his eye. As much as Bond might have thought they were close enough in interests when it came to building interesting projects, no one had _ever_ accused Bond of having an imaginative spark. Sexual appeal, absolutely. Creative problem solving when it came to achieving mission objectives? Absolutely. But the sort of innocent fascination that Q seemed to have with the world around him?

Bond sighed. “I’m not interested in casual. Perhaps you and Alec will have better luck without me.” He suddenly, desperately wanted to get out of there, but he couldn’t climb the rope ahead of Q. His gun would be the first thing Q would notice about his escape.

“Bollocks,” Alec interrupted. “We can share credit for this stupid idea. No, going into ruined buildings and tunnels isn’t something we do for entertainment normally, but we’re not dead. And there’s more to you than all this.” Alec gestured around at the tunnel. “Bloody hell, Q, the only reason we even found you is because I burned the damned house down, and James thinks he can keep it from happening again.”

Q turned, giving them both a confused, thoughtful frown. “I... overheard something like that,” he admitted.

“And neither of us wants casual, but with as much as we travel, that’s all we’ve been able to have, in any sort of normal relationship.” Alec looked to Bond.

“Normal relationship?” Bond laughed darkly and shook his head. “Fuck, Alec.” He looked at Q, and debated pulling his gun to shove it in his bag. It would help Q understand, but it would also take away Alec’s opportunity to have ‘normal’ relationship.

“So why this?” Q asked. He pulled off his headlamp and rubbed at the mark it left on his forehead, looking tired. “Why not... I don’t know, dinner and a movie?”

“Oh, we’re even more rubbish at conventional dating,” Alec said wryly. “Between us, James and I know every five-star restaurant and nightclub in London, but that’s where it all comes to a screaming halt.”

“And I thought you’d like it,” Bond confessed with an embarrassed shrug. “You were so excited. You wanted to explore it so badly. And we’re experts at this sort of thing. I thought it would be perfect.” He turned back to his rope and tugged it. He didn’t actually need to check to make sure it was secure, but it was something to do. Something to distract him from the unfolding conversation that was about to crush what he’d thought was an excellent chance at being happy in London.

Q sighed. “Can we agree not to do _this_ again? I would much rather spend my time doing something we _all_ want to do. Or both. God, whichever,” he said, rubbing at his forehead again. “Dinner is fine.”

Bond glanced at Alec, fully ready to concede and get this painful exercise over with. Q looking exasperated about dinner wasn’t exactly convincing. “Up you go,” he said gently, with a tip of his head.

Q shot him a wounded look, before he turned away. He reached up, took hold of the rope, and started climbing, trapping the rope between his boots, rather than climbing with only upper body strength. Alec and Bond both reached for the base of the rope to stabilise it.

Quietly, Alec reached down to mute his radio and quietly whispered, “What are you doing?”

“Shut up, Alec,” Bond growled quietly, holding tightly to the bottom of the rope. “It’s fine. One of us is more than enough, I think.”

“And you’re a bloody idiot,” Alec snapped back, though he managed to keep his voice lower than normal. “Or did you miss the ‘we’ he threw out there? You’re always trying to step in front of the bullet, James, and I’m fucking sick of it.”

“We were just fooling ourselves, Alec. Did you see him, even once, act like he was glad that we were both there with him?” He shook his head, again thinking about Q’s skittishness. Bond had absolutely no right to someone like Q — someone beautiful and full of wonder. He was too broken for that.

“Don’t make me hit you,” Alec said with a sigh. “I’ll bleed and you’ll bleed and Q will probably just cut the ropes and leave us both to rot down here, and if we somehow survive, M will have us both shot.”

“Don’t worry. I’ll shoot you first to divert the rats until someone eventually comes to retrieve me.” Then he cocked his head, realising he still had to get rid of his gun. He dropped the rucksack, opened it, and pulled his gun from his waistband. “Are you staying for the lockpicking group? If so, you’ll probably want to leave your Glock with me.” Bond set his .45 carefully in the bag and waited with an expectant expression.

Alec didn’t answer right away. He looked down, taking a couple of slow breaths in that thoughtful, considerate way that would have shocked the hell out of anyone who’d seen him make snap-decisions in the field.

“Right,” he finally said, and took off his rucksack. He dropped it on the debris pile under the hole, pulled off his headlamp, and dropped the light on top of the bag. He flexed his hands and looked at Bond, switching to Russian. “If you want to do this now, fine. You’re an idiot.”

Bond glared at Alec. “ _I’m_ the idiot, Alec?” he responded in Russian. “He was tense and nervous and irritated with what amounted to not even the most basic security measures. We can’t tell him a goddamn thing about our real lives, our real jobs, or why we come back with battered hands and bullet holes and broken ribs. He gets nervous talking about programming, and knows how to mark an extraction point, and I just...” Bond shook his head.

Momentarily distracted, Alec glanced up at the hole in the ceiling. Q had long since disappeared, and Bond hoped that he wasn’t trying the last climb by himself. “You think he’s a security risk?” Alec asked, looking back at Bond, though his eyes were distant. “Fuck. I didn’t even see it. _Fuck_.”

“No, Alec. I don’t think he’s a security risk. Did you see how baffled he was when I asked about the marker?” Bond shook his head. “He probably learned it from a parent or a friend in the military. But it’s the wider issue, Alec. We’re _both_ Double O’s. What do you think that does for his odds of living a long, happy life?”

“Right. So we’ll live alone and die alone and forget what the _fuck_ we’re risking our lives for?” Alec challenged. “What happened to wanting more than just a casual, nameless fuck?”

“I don’t want to break him!” Bond finally all but shouted. “He’s beautiful and innocent and doesn’t give a goddamn that his front door lock can be forced by any crackhead with a coat hanger, Alec!” Bond closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “One of us is enough. Better you than me. You hide what the job does to us better than I do.”

“Brilliant plan. Only I’m _not_ going to let you distract me from the fact that you’re doing it again, you fucking bastard. You want to pay for your shot at being happy? Fine,” Alec said, and hit him in the stomach hard enough to knock the wind from him.

Before he could take a rational step back to evaluate the situation like the logical man he sometimes pretended to be, he ducked under Alec’s arm and retaliated with a solid punch to Alec’s jaw. “I had my shot, Alec —”

“Stupid fucking idiot,” Alec accused, feinting a shot at Bond’s jaw, only to land another punch in his gut. He stepped back to let Bond catch his breath and rubbed at his own jaw.

Bond could see the way Alec planted his feet and tensed his arms in anticipation of another attack. So Bond stepped back and lifted his chin. “She was a traitorous bitch, and she died. I had my shot and blew it. It’s your turn to try for something good, Alec.”

This time, Alec kicked, and despite Bond’s intention to evade, it was reflexive for him to not just duck but to swipe up to catch at Alec’s ankle. He pulled as Alec twisted, and they both went down painfully on the rubble-covered floor.

Neither of them was particularly graceful, though they both made it back to their feet. Before Bond could say a word, Alec was on him, this time with a flurry of attacks that was too fast for the safety of the sparring room with its mats and gloves. It was raw and vicious and every landed blow hurt like hell, but the brief, familiar violence — an outlet of aggression rather than an expression of anger or life-or-death combat — was cathartic, Bond had to admit.

Finally, by unspoken agreement, they both slowed, though the twitch-reflex was still there, making them back away like predators fighting over the last bit of a tasty deer. Bond looked down on the dim light reflected from their headlamps; Alec’s had rolled off the rucksack to lodge between two fallen ceiling tiles, and Bond’s had gone flying two metres down the tracks. They both had scratched hands and probably bruised faces among other less visible marks.

“Are you still going to be an idiot about this?” Alec asked, slightly breathless, still speaking Russian.

“Like he’s going to want anything to do with either one of us when he sees us come out of the tunnels like this,” Bond said with a huff. Carefully watching Alec, he inched back to retrieve his headlamp.

Equally warily, Alec picked up his headlamp and rucksack. “We’ve been friends for twenty years. He’d be suspicious if we _didn’t_ settle our problems like eight-year-olds. So are you going to go up there and ask him to dinner?”

“No.” Bond slowly bent to pick up the lamp, then cautiously walked back. He dropped the lamp in the bag, zipped it, and shrugged it on. “And if you hit me again, I’m going to get the Technical Services Section to cancel all your credit cards and rig your car to trigger every red light in greater London.”

“I’ve already said I’d die for you. And I’m hardly ever _in_ London,” Alec said, and hit him again.

 

~~~

 

Q stared at the faint light of his mobile, barely daring to breathe. The conversation — Russian, he suspected — resumed, only to fade out again, replaced by what he was positive had to be a vicious fight, only they didn’t sound _angry_ at each other. What the hell were they doing?

He gnawed at a fingernail, nervously wondering if he should stop recording now and make his escape. The noise they were making would cover the rattle of any falling coal, he was certain. And whatever they’d said, he had more than enough to analyse.

Finally he fled, not due to cowardice so much as the need to pursue this new information. As quietly as he could, he climbed up the last rope, trying to avoid the temptation to brace his feet on the precarious pile of coal. It was easier than the climb up the first rope, despite the anxiety that had his heart pounding, and soon he was able to haul himself up into the workshop.

Up front, he could hear at least ten or fifteen people chatting; the lockpicking group was still going, apparently. Thankfully, no one had disturbed the ropes or decided to come down and investigate. Hoping luck still held out, he got out of his climbing harness as quickly as he could and bolted for the ladder in the corner the instant he was free.

His arms warned him that he was doing too much climbing, but he forced himself up into the hallway. He ducked under the safety chain that blocked off the top of the ladder and leaned against the wall, catching his breath. Even though he wasn’t worried that either Alec or James would hurt him, he still felt like he’d had a horror movie close call.

By the time he let himself through the locked back door and into the building staircase, he felt calmer. Maybe this had all been a game for them. A bet to see which of them could fuck with him more. Or just to see if they could get him to agree to their stupidly enticing idea of having them _both_. God, he’d been an idiot for thinking that they might want him. For _believing_ that they’d want him — hell, that even one of them would.

He unlocked the door to the upstairs flat, which took up the whole floor, and kicked it closed. Chell ran up to him and climbed up his leg, little claws digging into his jeans. He imagined accusation in her black eyes, shadowed by the brown mask of fur just over her pointed muzzle. She was a sable ferret; ferrets were, in his opinion, smarter than most humans.

He caught her long, narrow body and brought her to his shoulder. She immediately started chewing on the slightly ragged arm of his glasses. “I know, I know,” he told her tiredly. He pulled off his rucksack, careful not to dislodge her, and dropped the bag on the floor by the door, trying not to think about the fact that if things had gone well, he would be going elsewhere tonight with one of _them_.

“Fuck,” he told the ferret as he went into the kitchen.

A second ferret, almost twice Chell’s size, chittered at him accusingly from the kitchen floor, bouncing in circles like a little white hurricane. He set Chell down beside the white ferret — Dr Gordon Freeman — and opened one of the cupboards. He had to depress a childproof plastic latch to open the door fully; ferrets made better thieves than most humans, and his had the run of the flat.

He took down a bag of food pellets and gave them a handful to tide them over while he took a couple of frozen mice out of the freezer. While they were distracted, he put the mice in their bowls and quickly escaped, closing the kitchen door to keep them locked in. Otherwise, Gordon would steal both mice and hide them somewhere unpleasant and warm, like behind the servers.

Speaking of which... He went into what had been a spare bedroom and was now the server room. He took his mobile off his belt and plugged it into his laptop to pull the recorded audio file off. While it was synching, he went back out to his rucksack to retrieve his tablet.

It wasn’t there.

He searched the pockets again, but it was definitely missing. Which meant that one of _them_ still had it.

 _Fuck_.


	7. Chapter 7

**Tuesday, 15 January 2013**

Alec picked up the climbing harness Q had been wearing and gave Bond a silent look. The door between the machine shop and the front room was propped open as always, and the voices up front were loud, but not so loud that Bond and Alec wouldn’t be overheard.

Bond took the harness from Alec and hooked it over his arm. Then he walked over to the support beam and started undoing Alec’s knots, fingers aching as he worked the tension of the rope into submission. The sting was a little more significant than he was used to — particularly considering the fact that he wasn’t sweating in a desert hell hole. Once the last rope was free, Bond looked at his knuckles and grimaced at the black powder ground into the cuts.

“Coal stings like a bitch,” he complained as he bent to retrieve to the rope.

Alec finished neatly coiling the lines he’d brought up with them. “At least we were safe,” he said — meaning, of course, no one was shooting at them, which was how they usually ended up climbing or rappelling somewhere.

Bond started coiling his own ropes, ribs and jaw aching. It was time for paracetamol, scotch, and a long, hot bath. He didn’t particularly want to go back to the hotel room alone, but there was no way in hell he was staying here.

The shop had a checkout system for certain kinds of equipment — Bond was fairly sure he could get away with taking some solder, a solder gun, and a little clamp for his breadboard without Q complaining about it. He’d signed a waiver to leave the bench grinder there — it was more than enough in trade, monetarily speaking. Suddenly nothing in the world seemed half as important as getting started on the Arduino project.

The fucking goddamn sodding Arduino project that had started this whole mess.

Bond sighed and stuffed the ropes into his rucksack with more force than was strictly necessary. Trying valiantly not to limp, he made his way over to the solder guns at the row of stations at the back, unplugged the most rugged-looking one he could find, and tossed it on top of the rope. Then he went to component drawers and started to raid them for what else he’d need to start work on his breadboard. Most of his components, along with the mounting diagram and schematic, were tucked safely away in his locker. All he needed were a handful of extras for the capacitors and transistors he’d inevitably drop and not want to search for on his hands and knees in his current less-than-pristine condition.

“You know he lives on the top floor, right?” Bond said softly in Russian as he opened and closed drawers.

Alec quirked a brow at him, still settling his share of the gear in his own rucksack. “Doesn’t seem to be a family thing with the bloke who runs the coffee shop,” he murmured just as softly.

“I think Q might actually own the building,” Bond continued, “though you’ll have to check the deeds to be certain. And you’re going to want to talk to him about security, because it really is every bit the joke I described.”

“No.” Alec gave Bond a sharp look. “You do it.”

“Goddamn it, Alec,” Bond said tiredly. He glared at his friend before limping over to his locker. “I’m going back to the hotel to build Skynet. Go get laid.”

“No,” Alec repeated, the Russian word coming to him more naturally than breathing. He prodded Bond’s arm with something; Bond looked down to see a tablet computer — _Q’s_ tablet. “Go give this back. Or not. Whatever you want.”

Bond started to push it away, only to have Alec let go, forcing Bond to catch it or let it fall and shatter.

It was a fumble Bond was glad no one else could see, but he caught it. He glared at Alec, then down at the tablet. “I don’t know what to do, Alec. I think I’ve proven _spectacularly_ that I’m no good at this sort of thing. I really think you should go talk to him. Smooth things over. Maybe after you’ve charmed him and plied him with Michelin-star food and plenty of sex, he’ll consider me again. But I’m not in a good place for it right now.” He looked up at Alec. “I really am tempted to build fucking Skynet. Or Wintermute. Or, at the very least, my own version of RQOS.”

“And you say _I’m_ the dangerous one,” Alec said, shaking his head. “Whatever. Do you want a ride back to the hotel, or are you taking a taxi?” he asked in English. “Oh right, sorry. You need to return that. I’ll see you later.”

Bond resisted the temptation to throw the bloody tablet at Alec, only because he’d probably be the one to end up sweeping the glass shards off the floor and _that_ would end in blood and possibly the next nerd who stumbled into the workshop getting shot. He set it on the nearest table with a thump and bent to his locker. He pulled out his craft box full of components and his carefully folded schematics; the papers would fit in his rucksack, but not the craft box.

By the time he straightened, rather painfully, Alec was gone.

 

~~~

 

The sound of scratching at the kitchen door let Q know it was safe to go in and survey the damage. This time, it wasn’t bad. Gordon had finished his mouse, overturned his bowl, and apparently climbed up onto the counter, where he was standing on his hind legs like a meerkat sentry. Chell had taken the expedient route of overturning her bowl on top of herself and the mouse, allowing her to eat in peace.

“You do know it’s not normal for a ferret to eat his own weight, don’t you?” Q accused, holding out his arm. Gordon hopped up and allowed Q to transfer him to a bare shoulder. Gordon’s claws scratched, despite Q keeping them trimmed, but his shoulders were covered with little scratches anyway. A few more didn’t bother him.

He left Chell to her own devices and turned on the tap for Gordon, who always liked to wash in running water after a meal. The white ferret scrambled down Q’s arm and into the kitchen sink to shove his face under the dripping tap. Really, Q needed to either buy or make a fountain, but he had so many other projects. But giving them a fountain, maybe with a splashing pool, would give Q back the sink. Right now, he really wanted a cup of tea, only he didn’t feel like going down to the coffee shop to get one.

A beep from his office caught his attention. He didn’t bother to fill the kettle; instead, he went back to the office, where his voice recognition program had finally verified the transcript of the conversation he’d recorded.

The words turned out to be Russian, which had complicated matters, though not too badly. He looked at the familiar-yet-foreign letters on the screen and told himself not to try to pronounce them in phonetic English. Instead, he put on his headphones, leaned back in his chair, and played the vocal translation.

It started with “... a parent or a friend in the military.” The translation was imperfect, but he felt himself blushing when Speaker 1 — James — called him ‘beautiful and innocent’, though the next words made his heart skip at the mention of his front door being forced. Was that a Russian metaphor — a failing of the translation program — or did James actually know that he lived above the hackerspace? God, did they _both_ know? Did they know he owned the whole building?

He sat up in sudden alarm, wondering if they knew who he was. God, he’d done everything he could to change himself — let his hair grow out, wore glasses instead of contacts, changed his name, erased his past — but his old security consultant had warned him that no one was untraceable. No one could hide perfectly. And while it felt insane to imagine that this whole proposition of theirs had been part of a scheme to get access to Q, whether they wanted his programming skills or his money, it wasn’t _impossible_.

For what he was worth in cash alone, people would do far more.

He shut off the playback, hung the headset on his desk, and turned up his music. He needed to calm down and think rationally. Right now, he was safe, and that was all that mattered. He was safe. Even if he had to run and leave everything behind, he had escape plans. He had investment accounts. He was _safe_.

After a few minutes, his heart stopped racing. He opened the text transcript and tried not to let fear get in the way as he read through the transcript... all the way to Speaker 2 saying, ‘I’ve already said I’d die for you. And I’m hardly ever in London.’

Q leaned his elbows on his desk, pulled off his glasses, and rubbed at his eyes. Maybe they _weren’t_ a threat? Hell, maybe they weren’t even two arseholes out to entertain themselves with a little nerd-baiting.

Then he heard a knock at the front door. For a moment, he was surprised. Then he glanced at his monitor and saw it was closing time for the cafe. That meant it was Sapphire. She came up every couple of nights to play with the ferrets and pretend to hit on him. He was ready to get her a ferret of her own, but he didn’t know if she could have one at her building or give it proper attention with her schedule. So he raised his voice and shouted, “In!” and went back to staring at the transcript, wondering what the hell to do now.

 

~~~

 

Bond frowned at the door as it pushed open with no resistance whatsoever. Though Bond had found the ladder to be incredibly annoying, anyone determined to do any harm would have scaled it in a heartbeat, then rushed the stairs (which had their own door as a mere formality, given that Bond had found it unlocked) to get to Q. Even the door to his flat wasn’t locked.

He frowned even deeper when he realised Q hadn’t bothered to check the peephole to determine who his late-night caller was. Bond doubted that Q was expecting either Alec or him — after their childish display in the coal cellar, Q had probably assumed they’d left, or, at the very least, would have met one of them at the door to stop them from tramping dirt everywhere.

The foyer was small and looked like it was in mid-remodel. The hardwood floor was scarred at the borders where the carpet and tacking strips had been pulled up, and there were no baseboards. At the end of the foyer was a hallway stretching to the right and left, with a wide doorway that led to what was probably a living room.

The apartment was full of sound from speakers hung inside the living room and in several other rooms, judging by the rich depth of the music. Deep bass, almost ambient beat, light female vocals.

Bond hefted his rucksack a little higher on his shoulders and gripped his case and the tablet more tightly. He’d long ago lost any sense of guilt over trespassing in other peoples’ homes, but something about standing, completely unexpectedly, in Q’s home made for a very uncomfortable sensation.

“Q?” he called loudly, not wanting to venture any deeper into the flat than he had to.

He was met almost immediately. A white blur came bouncing into view, claws skittering on the hardwood floor as it skidded and fishtailed around the corner. It stayed sideways, long back arching, furry tail puffed and standing straight up as it bounced towards him in what might have been an intimidating threat-display had the ferret not been all of eight inches high in full-arch.

“Well, aren’t you an interesting little creature,” Bond said with smirk. “Not as good as an alarm system or a big black dog, but...” The he laughed as the creature took a couple of hops backwards when he slid his booted foot towards it. “Perhaps not better than nothing after all.” He took a deep breath and called again, “Q?”

When there was still no answer, he ventured forward, driving the guard-ferret back step-by-step. When he came to the intersection at the end, a second ferret peered out from around an open door — this one a pale tan with a deep brown mask and markings. It launched itself down the hallway at him, but rather than trying to attack, it jumped up onto his calf and started clawing up his dirty blue jeans.

The music, he noted in mid-attack, was loudest down this hallway and off to the right.

Tentatively, Bond reached his hand down for the newcomer ferret to sniff. He was only slightly surprised when the ferret ran up his arm, climbing his shirt in an effort to get to his shoulder. He scratched it carefully, watching for it to bite, before he started moving forward again, this time, towards where the loudest sound was coming from.

The hallway was as impersonal as the foyer: the same bare floor and lack of baseboards, though the light fixtures had been removed and the holes covered with painter’s tape. One section of the wall was covered with a precise grid of paint in two dozen shades of brown, grey, white, and blue.

He glanced through the open doorway on the left. It was a windowless kitchen, where two metal bowls sat on the floor and the tap dripped into the sink. The kitchen was small and cramped. A carpeted two-by-four leaned up against one side of the countertops, presumably as a ramp for the ferrets.

The white ferret gave up its guard routine at the open doorway on the left, just past the kitchen. It raced in, and Bond heard Q say, “Gordon?” almost too softly to be heard over the surprisingly loud music. There were at least four speakers involved, possibly five judging by the powerful bass; no wonder why Q hadn’t heard him.

Bond took a moment to survey the room before he went in and plan an approach least likely to scare Q. Though, of course, Bond wouldn’t feel guilty about it if he _did_ scare Q, given the state of his security. Or lack thereof.

The room was dominated by a glass and steel L-shaped desk with one side against the wall, putting his back to a narrow window hidden behind cheap white mini-blinds. The desk held five separate monitors, including a massive sleek silver monitor. All the cables were in protective plastic sleeves routed just under the desk, presumably as ferret-proofing. The cables went up to a shelf where three computers — one a Mac — sat out of reach.

Q was sprawled back in a leather-and-netting executive chair. His shirt was off, revealing pale skin covered with little scratch marks over his chest and shoulders. The white ferret was standing on his flat stomach, head thrown back to allow Q to rub under its chin with one finger. His glasses were off and his fringe hung down into his eyes, blocking his view of Bond and the doorway.

“... the matter? Sapphie ignoring you?” he asked, voice rising and falling in a quiet murmur. “If you weren’t such a little shit, she’d like you more. Thief.”

“Isn’t that a ferret’s job, to be an annoying little shit?” Bond said with quiet amusement.

Q sat up abruptly, dislodging the heavy white ferret, which let out a shriek of protest and left fine pink lines scored down Q’s chest. The chair went flying back as Q shot to his feet and stepped back, slamming the chair into the radiator under the window. The displaced ferret took off at a run, bolting past Bond and into the far wall.

“You have lousy security. By which I mean none. And I knocked. And yelled. Repeatedly.” Bond gave the ferret still on his shoulder one last scratch before he took hold of the tablet from his other hand and held it up like a peace offering. He pointedly didn’t ask who Sapphie was, nor did he allow himself to show concern over the scratches.

“You’re not —” Q cut off, looking a bit wild-eyed. He picked up his glasses and put them on, shoving his hair out of the way. “Who told you to find me here?” He rested a hand on the desk and leaned forward to take the tablet. The desk was solidly made, perhaps even custom-built; it didn’t creak or shift.

“I’ve seen you disappear up that ladder more than once, remember?” Bond pointed out. “It wasn’t that difficult a leap to keep going up one more floor. I’m just here to return the tablet and apologise before I leave.” Bond paused, refusing to look anything but acceptably remorseful. “I’m sorry Alec and I handled things so poorly. I hope you weren’t offended.”

“It’s — No.” Q took the tablet and put it down without looking. Instead, he looked at the ferret on Bond’s shoulder, then back at Bond, and said, “She likes you.”

“It happens occasionally,” Bond said with a smile. “I’m about to head out, but I just wanted to tell you, before I go, that you really, really should consider upgrading your security. Some better locks, maybe a biometric scanner or two, would be much more effective that your little guard ferret there, as fierce as he looks.”

“He’s a coward,” Q said, biting his lip. He glanced at the ferret on Bond’s shoulder again. “No one’s supposed to know I live here, except the people at the cafe.”

“It’s inevitable that people will figure it out, especially given the highly intelligent people you deal with regularly.” Bond met his eyes. “Security will go a long way in making you feel safer,” he said again firmly. “It’s not as if it will present a challenge for you to upgrade. Well, unless you wanted it to.”

“Who are you?” Q asked, blurting the question out abruptly. “You and Alec. Both of you.”

Bond sighed and brought his free hand back to scratch at the ferret that seemed to content to stay perched on his shoulder. Now that he’d decided against pursuing a relationship with Q, the lies came more naturally. “James Bond and Alec Trevelyan. Consultants. Londoners.”

Q gave Bond an admonishing sort of look. “You act like bodyguards.”

“I suppose that’s fair assessment of part of our jobs,” Bond conceded. He told himself to stop talking except to say goodbye, to walk away and go back to the hotel room, where he wouldn’t find comfort but he would find painkillers and alcohol and hot water. But he couldn’t quite bring himself to turn from the sight of the beautifully bare-chested hackerspace director.

“Did — Did you lose someone?” Q asked a bit hesitantly. “A client?”

Bond straightened and watched Q carefully and perhaps more coldly than the question warranted. They’d turned the comms off and even changed their language, but Q was exceptionally smart. He could very well speak Russian and they wouldn’t have known. Though if Q had understood what they’d said, wouldn’t his attitude be markedly different?

“What makes you ask that?” he asked in the same quiet tone he’d used so far.

“A bodyguard will take a bullet for a client, but there’s no attachment. It’s professional, not personal. An overprotective” — he hesitated — “boyfriend would be more concerned with other things — falls or rusty cuts. You acted like both. Both of you did.”

“We’ve seen a lot of bad things over the years, Q. You can’t blame us for wanting to ensure the safety of someone we...” Bond stopped and turned his head to look at the ferret. _Care about_ , he’d wanted to say. But he’d stepped down. It was Alec’s job now. “You’ll have to be patient with Alec, but he only has your best interests at heart.”

Q sighed faintly and sat down, almost disappearing behind his monitors. “All right,” he said quietly, the words nearly lost under the loud music.

Bond nodded, not letting himself feel anything about Q’s reaction. He tried to pull the ferret off his shoulder so he could go, but the beast clung stubbornly to him, and Bond quickly discovered that one hand wasn’t going to do it. “Q,” he called again with resignation. “Your assistance is required.”

He didn’t miss the way Q flinched before he looked up. With another sigh, he rose and walked around the desk, shoulders hunched slightly as if he were trying to disappear into the background; it looked like he had long practice at it. Without meeting Bond’s eyes or even getting too close, he slid a hand under the ferret’s body. She arched as if boneless, but her claws stayed fixed in Bond’s shirt. Carefully, Q dislodged each foot, lifting her so she couldn’t reattach.

Once she was free, he transferred her to his own shoulder. She buried her head behind his ear, and Bond saw his glasses move to the faint clicking sound of her teeth on the frames. She balanced, leaving little scratches, as he turned and went back to his desk.

“Good night,” Bond called. “And let me know if you need help upgrading.” With one final look at Q, Bond turned to go. He’d call a taxi on the way down and be back at the hotel in twenty minutes.

 

~~~

 

Q stared up at the ceiling long enough that Chell curled up in a ball and fell asleep on his chest, forcing him to awkwardly rescue her when he finally sat up. He transferred her to the desk, where she yawned, glared at him for taking away her comfortable bed, and went back to sleep. Gordon was probably still hiding under the kitchen cupboards; he didn’t handle strangers well.

And that was all James would ever be. Which was fine. His choice. Whatever he’d said earlier that afternoon, he’d made his feelings clear. Alec had told James not to walk away from Q, but James had ignored him. So fine.

At least he’d been nice enough to return the tablet. Or, more likely, Alec had made him return the tablet.

God, he hated dealing with people. No one was ever honest or open or even sensible. Q had just let him walk out instead of saying anything, but what the hell should he have said? What _could_ he have said that Alec hadn’t already tried?

 _Alec_ , he thought, glancing at Chell. Maybe he hadn’t actually done anything beyond one blazing hot kiss (right after the _first_ blazing hot kiss, which was apparently never to be repeated) but at least he hadn’t walked out on Q. Or, well, he _had_ , unless he was lurking down in the hackerspace. But he hadn’t come upstairs and _then_ walked out.

Of course, just the thought of actually calling made Q feel a little queasy. Between the stress of the spectacularly horrid ‘date’ and his fear that James and Alec might not be what they seemed, Q found himself seriously debating drinking until he fell asleep, something he hadn’t done for at least four years. And at least that had been at the end of a two-year relationship — not less than twelve hours.

Was it just men? Q leaned back again. No, the women he’d dated had been just as erratic. Not as quick to show it, but... yes. Definitely erratic. After this long, it was obvious that _everyone_ was, which meant Q had three choices: small doses of erratic behaviour coupled with generally boring one-night stands, get used to a nerve-wracking amount of erratic behaviour from one partner ( _not two_ ), or take up celibacy.

Well, no. The fourth option was to hire prostitutes. Technically, that eliminated the irritating behaviour, while introducing all sorts of other horrific variables.

“Why the hell couldn’t I have been born a ferret?” he asked Chell as he sat up to log into the hackerspace server. Technically, accessing member files for personal use was a violation of his position, but fuck it all. He didn’t care. Neither of his so-called boyfriends — not the one who’d broken up after a handful of hours nor the... other one — had personally given him contact information, meaning he had to take steps.

He opened James’ application and scrolled down to the emergency contact information, pointedly _not_ making an effort to memorise James’ phone number. Of course, he only needed a moment for the numbers to lock themselves in his brain, damn his memory, but that didn’t mean he’d ever actually _use_ them.

Instead, he let himself memorise Alec’s number, and then he took the mobile off his belt. He was going to get _something_ out of this miserable day, even if it was a record two rejections in the span of an hour.

 

~~~

 

Bond returned to the suite to find the lights blazing in the living room and a pair of clean, empty glasses on the coffee table. The door to Alec’s bedroom was open, and Alec came out, now wearing his shoulder holster openly over his T-shirt, as was his habit. “Freezer,” he said as he went to sit on the couch.

With an irritated look at Alec, Bond kicked off his shoes at the door and walked over to the kitchen. He carefully set his craft box and bag on the counter where he intended to work on his project, then went to the sink to wash his hands. The water and soap stung, but it was relief to get the dust and grime out of the scrapes. When he was finished, he headed to the freezer to get what he assumed would be a bottle of top-notch Russian vodka. He smiled humourlessly when he wasn’t disappointed — Stoli Elit sat chilling in the middle of the otherwise empty freezer.

“You’re a good man,” Bond said as he brought it back out to table.

Alec opened the bottle and poured for them both. He shoved one glass at Bond and picked up the other. Somewhat grimly, he muttered, _“Do dna,”_ and finished the drink in one swallow.

Bond followed Alec’s example and finished his shot. He set the glass down and looked at Alec. “Tablet returned. And I told him to fix his security,” he said, raising a brow as he watched Alec refill both glasses.

This time, Alec picked up his glass and favoured Bond with a glare before repeating his toast and swallowing down the shot.

Bond sighed and drank his shot. “You should have warned me it was going to be one of those nights. I would have taken a shower first.”

“You should’ve predicted it. Twenty fucking years, you think you’d know,” Alec said, pouring a third shot for each of them. He pushed Bond’s glass back over and looked at him expectantly.

Bond tossed back the shot, then set it down with a laugh that was dangerously close to a giggle. “We were going to share, Alec. How ridiculous is that?” Then he shook his head. “Except of course that it would have worked, if were we all just slightly different people.” He looked up Alec. “Well, except for you. You’re fine the way you are.”

“Half of MI-fucking-six can’t tell us apart, James. It’s apparently your turn to be a bloody idiot.” Alec sat back with his glass, untouched, and pulled his mobile out of his pocket. He slid it across the coffee table to Bond. “I’m going to assume you _don’t_ have a date for Saturday night.”

“I’d make a joke about having a date with a solder gun, but that’s just too easy for you.” Bond picked up the mobile and unlocked it — he’d long since learned to guess Alec’s codes and passwords. It was opened to a brief series of texts between Alec and an unfamiliar number:  
  
 _Received 2209 15/01/13 — You mentioned dinner. Q_  
Sent 2210 15/01/13 — Love to. Is there anywhere special you’d like to go?  
 _Received 2214 15/01/13 — Anywhere quiet._  
 _Sent 2216 15/01/13 — I can get a table at Hawksmoor with no notice. I know people._  
 _Received 2217 15/01/13 — Useful. Friday night?_  
 _Sent 2219 15/01/13 — Making arrangements now. Will text with details._  
 _Sent 2230 15/01/13 — Friday night, 8.30? If ok, I can pick you up at 8._  
 _Received 2232 15/01/13 — Perfect. See you then._

“Good choice in restaurant,” Bond said when he was finished reading the texts. He set the mobile back on the table and refilled his own glass this time. “And he looks like he could use a good steak dinner.” He drank the shot, set it down, and leaned back against his chair. He closed his eyes and felt the warmth of the liquor passing through his oesophagus to his stomach and radiating from there. This would make his bath much more pleasant, he decided.

“You didn’t listen to me,” Alec said, sipping his vodka much more carefully. “What’d you do? Slide the tablet under the door?”

“Not at all. Made it to the inner sanctum. Let one of his pet ferrets get overly friendly with me. Gave him the tablet and talked to him about security. Left.” Bond shrugged. “It was very efficient.”

“So a nice, long display of you being on your best professionally harmless and friendly behaviour, all the while being too bloody stubborn to ask him out or try and kiss him again.” Alec rose enough to lean over and take away Bond’s glass so he could refill it.

“He didn’t look at me with anything but annoyance, exasperation, and suspicion the entire bloody evening, Alec. Of course I wasn’t going to try and kiss him. He may be scrawny, but I didn’t feel like taking another blow to the face.” Bond took the glass from Alec, but stared at it. “It’s fine, Alec. Just let it go already.”

“You like him. You’re attracted to him. You like the fact that you can have a bloody conversation with him and not think he’s looking for the best way to cut your throat. Am I right so far?”

Bond nodded and sipped at the shot. “Yes. But didn’t we already have this conversation?”

“We did, only you missed the whole fucking point,” Alec said sharply. “What was it you said? You don’t want to break him? So, what? You’re going to break yourself instead? And don’t think I don’t know that’s exactly what the hell you’re doing.”

Bond chuckled wryly. “Too late for that I think.” He took another sip of his drink. “You know, he asked me if I’d lost someone. A client. He’d decided we’re bodyguards.”

“So, he’s smarter than you are. Good for him,” Alec said, swirling the vodka around in his glass before he finished it off. He leaned forward to pour himself a refill. “You took a chance once, and that bitch burned you. You torture and kill people for a living. So you’re not allowed to have anything good. And if karma won’t make your life a fucking living hell, you’ll do it yourself. And that includes walking away from this.” He held up the bottle and gestured expectantly at Bond’s glass.

“He deserves better than me, Alec. I thought maybe with both of us, we might have a shot of coming close to providing what a normal...” He shook his head.

“If he deserves better than you, then what the fuck am I doing with him?” Alec demanded. He put down the bottle and sat back again. “Tell me _one thing_ that makes me good for him, and you not.”

“You don’t lose your goddamn mind in a relationship and jeopardise everything we swore to protect.” Bond glared at Alec.

“Ah,” Alec breathed in understanding. “You didn’t stand a chance against her, James. She played you. She targeted you. Everything she said and did, from the very first minute, was aimed at one goal. You didn’t fuck up a relationship; you were targeted.”

“Doesn’t make my actions any more excusable, Alec. I would have done anything for her. Given everything up for her. Hell, I did. I left. And look what happened. What nearly happened. I just don’t think I can do it again."

“Yes, because Q is specifically targeting you — not me, despite our date Friday night, but _you_ — so he can, what, steal a couple hundred million quid from the Treasury?”

“He’s a hacker, and he’s hiding something. Something big. Don’t tell me you can’t feel it.” Bond finished off his drink and tipped it upside down on the table.

Alec’s eyes narrowed. “So _I_ can go out with him and take all the risk?”

“It’s probably nothing.”

“Then what’s your excuse?”

“I can’t be trusted to be objective.” And there it was. What Bond hadn’t ever allowed himself to admit. He’d tried and failed spectacularly. He just didn’t think he could risk it anymore.

Alec didn’t answer immediately. Instead, he finished his drink and set his glass on the table, also upside-down. “Trust,” he said quietly as he stood. Then he turned, circled around the back of the couch, and went to his bedroom, where he swung the door closed hard enough to rattle the painting on the wall.

“Well, _fuck._ ” Bond ran his hands through his hair and stared at Alec’s door, trying and failing to think of anything else to say. So he stood, picked up the bottle of vodka, and headed to the bathroom for a much-needed bath.


	8. Chapter 8

**Wednesday, 16 January 2013**

The door to the office Alec and Bond shared opened after a single knock, giving the two agents just enough warning that they didn’t draw weapons on the woman who walked in. She was tall, with frosted blond hair that didn’t quite hide the grey at her temples. Very few people at MI6, even the ones who often worked with field agents, had the courage to glare at one Double O, much less two, but the look she shot them both, peering over her reading glasses, made Bond, at least, feel like he was twelve years old all over again, getting called to the headmaster’s office for seducing one of the maids at Eton.

“James made me do it,” Alec said at once.

Danielle Marsh huffed, closed the door, and sat down in the only guest seat in the cramped little office. It was next to Bond’s desk at the moment, though it tended to migrate whenever they used it as a footrest. “All right then, James,” she challenged as she set a tablet on the corner of the desk. “What exactly do you have me investigating? Because what I’m finding is utterly bland and uninteresting for one Double O, much less two — _much less_ you two.”

“You say that like we’re special,” Alec said, rolling his chair around beside Bond’s.

“Special. There’s a pretty word for the mess you two create every time you’re in the same hemisphere,” she said with a little huff, though her eyes glinted with amusement.

Before answering, Bond picked up the tablet. It was unlocked, showing a series of files: the articles of association for Nova Prospekt Hackerspace Ltd, a lease agreement for Nova Prospekt Cafe Ltd, and a property deed to NP Ltd, corporate owner of the entire building. Nova Prospekt Hackerspace listed Q as a director, but the sole director of NP Ltd was Q Smith.

The next file was a deed poll, dated six years ago, changing the name of Harrison Kinlan to Q Smith. The name tugged at Bond’s memory.

He swiped over to the next file and saw an archive news report of the kidnapping of Harrison Kinlan, age nine, seventeen years ago. The boy had been put on a private plane to return to England for the start of the school year, only to have the pilots killed and the plane hijacked. The plane had crashed on landing, but he’d been held in the fuselage for two days at Fitton Airfield — a hostage situation settled only when the Met stormed the plane and killed the kidnappers.

Bond’s fingers tightened on the tablet. _I don’t like pilots_. Human error was the least of it, Bond realised. “He runs the workspace I’ve been using since the house burned down,” he said as he swiped to the next screen. “A background check seemed prudent.”

Next was an obituary for William Kinlan and Carolyn Galloway-Kinlan, who died — _God,_ Bond thought, shaking his head — in a plane crash, when Harrison was seventeen, already in his last year of undergraduate study at Cambridge.

The final article compared Harrison Kinlan to the fictional Tony Stark. Apparently, at age eighteen, Harrison Kinlan had developed a cross-platform encryption program that he sold to a defence contracting company for a ridiculous amount of money. The photo was recognisably Q, but with a military-short buzz cut and no glasses. Briefly, he had been something of a celebrity — young, handsome, single, and rich — until he disappeared.

Bond tried to swipe to the next screen, but there was nothing else. Ten years was a long time to live in obscurity, especially for someone so young. Bond wondered what Q had been doing that whole time. He wondered why Q was still running. Then he realised that Q was probably one of the few people in the world who understood what his and Alec’s lives were like. With a frown, Bond passed the tablet to Alec.

“I’m going to assume this is personal and not an MI6 matter,” Danielle said dryly.

“You could say that,” Alec muttered. “Jesus.”

“ _Someone_ has done a very thorough job of erasing every other trace of him,” Danielle continued. “We can keep working on it, but I doubt we’ll find much more, truth be told.”

“I doubt that will be necessary,” Bond said, tapping his fingers on his leg. Q obviously didn’t need money, and wasn’t likely to be working for anyone Bond or Alec would need to be concerned about. Between investments and the freelance programming work Q had mentioned, which his file indicated would be at an exceptionally high level, and his personality, Bond felt relatively confident in his assessment of Q’s status as a non-threat.

Danielle stared at Bond long enough for him to grow uncomfortable. When Alec returned the tablet to her, she included him in her assessing stare. “I would like to know precisely what interest _you two_ have in this poor lad. And don’t you try and tell me it’s because you’re using his workshop, James.”

“Whatever other interests I may have been contemplating when I requested the background search I have since reconsidered,” Bond said honestly. “I just want a place to build.”

“Oh, good lord, you and your doublespeak,” Danielle said with a sigh. “And what’s _your_ excuse, Alec?”

“My charm and good looks?” Alec tried. “I’m just the driver here. I’ve only met him a half dozen times.”

“Only,” Bond repeated, glancing at Alec, who grimaced.

“It sounded better in my head,” Alec admitted.

Danielle let out another sigh and rose, reclaiming her table. “If I find out that you’ve made this poor lad’s life a living hell, we’re going to have words — even if it means I have to send you both to Norilsk to keep you away from him.”

“I assure you that won’t be necessary, ma’am,” Bond said, for the first time somewhat relieved that he’d made the choice he had. He knew that if Danielle wanted him in that Siberian hell hole, digging for nickel ore and being poisoned by sulphur dioxide fumes, she’d get him there. “Though I can’t speak for Trevelyan.”

“Danielle, love —”

“Don’t,” she warned sharply.

Alec’s grin faltered. “I have nothing but the best intentions.”

She stared at him for another few moments. Then she rose and warned, “I’m watching you — both of you. You’ve got copies of the files in your emails. Misuse them and your next firearms will shoot little flags that say ‘bang’.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Alec agreed, raising a brow at Bond.

Bond smirked at Alec. “You have nothing to worry about from me,” he told Danielle. “Though if you’d get that bloody black mark of mine off my Technical Services Section _recommendations_ ” — he coughed — “so that I could use your labs again, I wouldn’t have to fall back on invading the poor lad’s hackerspace.”

“I haven’t forgotten the incident with the magnesium flares. Come near my labs, and you’ll beg for the Siberian posting,” she warned darkly before she walked out.

As the door clicked shut behind her, Alec spun his chair around to face Bond. “What the _hell_ has he been through?” Alec asked softly.

“Too much,” Bond replied sadly. “Let’s hope M never sees that file.” Q was far too much the clever orphan for her to resist.

Alec shot him a look, eyes going wide with understanding. “Fuck,” he said, frowning. “He’d disappear. He’s probably got a half-dozen cover identities, bank accounts, escape routes...”

“And you’re certain she’d let him go, are you?” Bond asked, thinking about the military encryption program. Someone with that much potential could be a significant asset to MI6 — or a significant potential threat. “Well. Things just got a bit more complicated for you, now didn’t they?”

Alec gave Bond a flat glare. “If you’re —” he began, and then shook his head. He kicked his chair back over to his desk. “Forget it. _I_ think he’s worth the effort,” he said as he started to type.

“Yes, well, be that as it may, you may want to check your guns before you head out into the field,” Bond said with smirk. “She’s not as easily convinced as I am about such things.” With a sigh, he looked back down at his after action report on the Iraq mission. Despite several days’ worth of effort, he was still far from finishing it.

“Believe what you’d like,” Alec said flatly.

Bond looked up at him, faintly surprised at Alec’s complete lack of attempt at banter. “For God’s sake, Alec,” he huffed. Then he shook his head, not ready to have another knock-down, drag-out fight about Q — particularly not at MI6. “I’m going to the range,” he announced, standing and shoving his chair back. He tapped the keyboard shortcut to log out of his computer without shutting it off. Maybe the words to describe the painful clusterfuck that had been the Iraq mission would come easier when he had a gun in his hand and something to shoot at.

“Don’t shoot yourself in the foot.” Alec twisted to look back at Bond, green eyes flat. “Again.”

“You’re not joining me?” Bond asked in surprise. Alec rarely turned down the opportunity to blow off steam with the aid of gunpowder. He knew his friend was irritated about the situation with Q, but apparently Bond had underestimated the extent of that irritation. It wasn’t as if Bond were denying Alec _his_ shot at the hacker; he didn’t understand what his friend’s problem was.

“No.”

Bond thought for a moment about trying to tempt him with the promise of testing hand grenades, but left before he was tempted to follow through.

Alec was angry. Actually, honestly angry with him. Which was... uncomfortable. Bond decided it was probably best if he stayed late at the range tonight, just so he could avoid running into Alec at the hotel.

Distantly, Bond decided he was impressed. Not much could come between Bond and Alec. Bond supposed it was probably another indication of Q’s exceptional status that he could do so without any effort whatsoever.

 

~~~

 

Someone had done an excellent job at ensuring that James Bond and Alec Trevelyan didn’t exist. Not completely, at any rate. Oh, they had traces, the most recent being an insurance company claim for a cooking fire that destroyed their detached house. Their tax records claimed a substantial income through Universal Exports, Ltd, a company that had government-level firewalls.

No, better than government. Q could hack government in his sleep.

He worked at it into the night, trying everything he could think of, until he was actually debating a physical infiltration of the tiny corporate offices. “Military contractors?” he asked Gordon, who was stealing crisps out of the bag next to the keyboard. They weren’t very good for him, but the ferret was ridiculously inefficient at eating them, resulting in a pile of crisp-fragments on the desk. It was cute, and Q needed the company.

Then, as the clock ticked past midnight, Q finally found a crack in the Universal Exports firewall thanks to a convenient multimedia download request. Q smirked as he realised one of the techs had a personal file-server on the Universal Exports network, probably thinking he was smart enough to keep it hidden from both whoever monitored the servers internally and the outside world. Q gave the tech kudos for having the guts to store terabytes worth of multimedia on some of the best defended servers he had encountered in a while, though his smile vanished when he realised why all the defences were in place.

Universal Exports was a front for MI6.

“Well, I suppose they’re not enemies,” Q muttered, rescuing Gordon from the empty crisps packet. He picked up the ferret and gave his fur a good brushing, scattering salt and crumbs. He shouldered the ferret and rose from his desk, feeling the ache in his joints and muscles. His stomach rumbled in protest at how long he’d spent neglecting food.

“They couldn’t have just _said_ they’re secret agents?” he complained, only to roll his eyes at his own stupidity. Of course they couldn’t. Which awkwardly left him with knowledge that he shouldn’t possess. They’d go on lying, and he’d have to pretend that he was unaware of the truth, and god, he really was a horrid liar. He’d never actually cared to learn how to effectively deceive.

He took a couple of mice out of the freezer for the ferrets and put a container of unknown takeaway in the microwave for himself. If Alec and James really were MI6, then they were most likely safe. Or Alec was. Well, James was, too, but he wasn’t _interested_. Which still hurt like a flash-burn centred in Q’s chest, especially when he thought about how James had spoken of him. Q was accustomed to being dismissed by men and women who were beautiful or strong or popular. He was too thin, too odd-looking, and far too smart.

He raked a hand through his hair, watching as Chell flipped her bowl again with a clatter. For the first time in years, he was tempted to cut off his hair. Surely after a decade no one would recognise him, and he’d be at least a _little_ more normal-looking without such an untameable mess.

But the idea of being recognised was uncomfortable, and he put off the decision. He could reevaluate as summer approached. Besides, Alec didn’t seem to mind his hair. In fact, he rather liked it.

 

~~~

 

**Friday, 18 January 2013**

Bond stood at the open balcony door, thinking about Venezuela and circuit boards as he watched the rare cold, fluffy snow drift through the evening sky. The night air was crisp, not heavy and wet. It was a night to be out walking, letting the chill drive away memories of the jungle.

But as appealing as the idea sounded at the moment, Bond knew it wasn’t actually wise. The problem with walking was that, without the distraction of company or purpose, it was very meditative. Bond would be left alone with his thoughts, and they would inevitably turn down an unwelcome path. His recent mission, his close call with Q and Alec... hell, in his present mood, he might be tempted to let his mind wander to older, darker places that would lead to a bottle of something with a liver-stoppingly high proof, at the very least.

The Arduino. That was what he needed to focus on. A project, a distraction — something that required both focus and imagination and provided a tangible end result would be an excellent way to avoid thinking about anything else.

He looked down at the twisted wire in his hands and tossed another scorpion onto the coffee table, this one white with subtle stripes of blue, green, orange, and brown. He’d started making them years ago as a way to stay sane while holed up in a safehouse for a week and a half. Now, it was an unconscious habit. Wire in hand plus wandering thoughts yielded scorpions.

Alec came out of his bedroom and met the reflection of Bond’s eyes in the dark window. His Russian upbringing showed in his choice of a lightweight slate blue jumper with no shirt underneath; most Londoners would be bundled up to their ears and still shivering. He hadn’t bothered to shave, though he rarely did, between missions.

“You’re certain you don’t want to come?” he asked as he walked up to stand at Bond’s side. “You know I can bump up the reservation to three without a problem.”

“I want to make some progress on my project,” Bond said with a smile. “Have a good time.”

“We don’t even _have_ a house yet,” Alec pointed out. He didn’t touch Bond — he shoved his hands into the pockets of his black trousers — but he stood close, almost shoulder-to-shoulder. “Why the rush?”

“It could take months to get a house, and the system still won’t be ready by then,” Bond pointed out. “Remember how long it took me to get the security system in place? The bugs I had to work out?” He gave Alec a small but real grin. “Best to test it here in the insured hotel room, don’t you think?”

“If I believed for a second that was your only reason, that’d be fine.” Alec sighed and turned away from the window. “If you change your mind, call me.”

Bond nodded and turned away, though he was desperately tempted to go. As much as he really did want to join Alec and Q, he knew that in his present mood it would simply be an attempt to escape from the crushing bleakness he could feel coming; that wouldn’t make for a pleasant evening for any of them. Worse, it wouldn’t be because he was tempted to give their strange arrangement another shot, and that would be unfair to Q in particular.

In the glass, Bond watched the reflection as Alec walked to the door to retrieve his coat. Alec didn’t say another word, though he turned to look back at Bond for a long minute, long enough that Bond thought he might say something.

But he didn’t. He just shook his head and quietly left.

As the door closed, Bond turned away from the balcony door and went to the kitchenette to get the soldering iron heating up. His last thought before circuitry took over his mind was that he _really_ hoped Alec wouldn’t bring Q back to the hotel when dinner was over.


	9. Chapter 9

**Friday, 25 January 2013**

Bond let himself into the hotel room, too elated to even feel irritated that he’d _again_ missed an appointment with the estate agent to view a couple of new houses. He was starting to wonder if he’d have to buy something off the internet, sight-unseen, simply because of his schedule. But buying another house for Alec to burn down was a far lower priority than taking out two of MI6’s most wanted. All of MI6 would be talking about his mission success for weeks, if it wasn’t classified at the highest levels.

“Alec!” Bond shouted in the direction of Alec’s bedroom. He dropped his suitcase with a little wince. His shoulder had been dislocated three days ago and was still sore. Medical had hinted at an MRI, but it was Friday night, Bond was back in London, and he was going to find _someone_ to help him celebrate. Someone who wasn’t an MI6 medical technician.

He emptied the contents of his jacket pockets onto the table by the front door: two coat check stubs, taxi receipt, three wire scorpions.

He drew a breath to shout for Alec again, only to spot the red envelope on the breakfast counter by the kitchenette. Curious, he picked it up and slid out two tickets to the Canary Wharf ice rink and a note on hotel stationery:

_J,_

_Heading to Tel A. Our friends there have sniffed out a business lead to break into Afghanistan exports. Will call with estimated profits when I’m on the ground._

_I would’ve rescheduled tonight, but I got us tickets to the Fox’s Den after, and normally those take months to rebook._

_Hope you had fun in Tokyo._

_-A_

Bond smirked; _fun_ didn’t even to begin to describe it. He pulled out the printed tickets to the ice rink and found two small, hand-written certificates, barely larger than coat check claim tickets, for the Fox’s Den, tonight at nine, with a phone number. The Fox’s Den was one of a dozen underground restaurants that periodically cropped up in London — a sort of epicurean’s version of a rave, featuring experimental cooking techniques and occasionally illegal ingredients.

He grinned and sat on the couch, looking at the tickets. Ice skating at Canary Wharf followed by the Fox’s Den — even if he somehow managed to find a less than optimal companion for the evening, there was almost no way the evening could fail.

 

~~~

 

Grateful for his warm parka and scarf, Q jogged up to the hotel entrance, grinning despite the cold. His first date with Alec had been traditional and somewhat tentative — and Q definitely considered their dinner to be their ‘first’ date. He refused to even think about the disastrous visit to the tunnels under the building.

 _‘Exotic? I can do that,’_ Alec had said after they’d kissed at the end of the night. He’d refused to even hint at what he was thinking. They’d spoken twice over the intervening week: on Saturday, when Q had called to thank Alec for the lovely evening, and on Wednesday, when Alec had confirmed their date for Friday night.

Q wondered if they were going to end up with a standing Friday night date. The idea was surprisingly appealing. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had anything approaching a regular relationship. These days, all of his stability came from running groups at the hackerspace.

Only when he pressed the ‘17’ button inside the lift did he allow himself to wonder if James would be at the hotel room. He hadn’t been at the hackerspace at all for the last week, and Q was starting to wonder if he should offer to bring the bench grinder back; it wasn’t a donation, after all. He’d even considered offering a refund of James’ membership fee, though there was no way to do so without it coming out like a rudely backwards way of suggesting James was unwelcome. Which he wasn’t.

So Q was more than a little nervous by the time he finally stepped out of the lift and made his way to suite 1701, at the end of the hall. If James was there, he’d be polite, of course, and not mention anything about the tunnels or their almost-dating or their kiss.

He pulled off his gloves, shoved them in his pocket, and knocked on the door.

When the door opened, it wasn’t Alec who greeted him — it was James. An unusually at-ease, well-dressed, grinning James.

He tipped his head to side when he saw Q standing there instead of whomever he was expecting. He stared for an uncomfortable moment before chuckling. “Damn him,” he said in a subdued voice, smiling. “Hello, Q.”

Firmly ignoring the little flip of his stomach at the sight of James’ grin, Q smiled and put his hands in his pockets, telling himself that he’d expected this. “Sorry to bother you. Is Alec ready?” he asked awkwardly. He really should have texted from the lobby, or at least called up to the room, but he was early and had thought to surprise Alec.

James shook his head and stepped aside, holding the door open to Q. There was a sort of electric tension about him that felt a little like a sparking live wire — power hiding just under the surface, waiting for something to catch the current. “He’s not here, I’m afraid. Would you like to come in for a moment?”

 _Not here?_ Q stepped inside, feeling strangely wary. He had to remind himself that James and Alec worked for the government — they’d have no reason to wish him any sort of harm.

He looked around but saw nothing unusual. The suite was what one would expect from a luxury hotel. No pack of armed attackers waiting to surround him, no sign of violence between Alec and James, nothing remarkable at all, except for James. And a complete lack of Alec.

“Is he —” Q turned back as James closed the door. “I can wait in the lobby, if you’re” — he hesitated, thinking that James was dressed for a date, but he couldn’t bring himself to say ‘waiting for someone’ — “busy.”

James looked appreciatively at Q’s clothing choices, and his smile grew a bit wider. “Alec is out of town for work I’m afraid.” He walked over to the breakfast counter and lifted a red envelope to wave in Q’s direction. “I see you had plans.”

The disappointment was almost physical. He looked at the envelope and reminded himself of Alec’s warning that he could be sent out of town at a moment’s notice. Alec had given a nice, believable explanation for the ‘emergencies’ a ‘business consultant’ might encounter, and Q had kept his mouth shut, hiding his knowledge of Alec’s true job.

But the thought of that twisted the disappointment into sudden, sharp, nauseating worry. If Alec was gone on such short notice, that meant it was a mission — the sort of mission that was dangerous, possibly even deadly. And short notice meant little in the way of preparation. Did he have any sort of backup at all, or had MI6 simply thrown him out of the country with nothing more than a false passport and an objective? Did he even have a gun? A bloody mobile to call for backup? Was there even any backup to be called?

“Are you all right?” James asked with an arched brow. “I was about to have a glass of scotch. Would you like one?” James crossed the suite to stand in front of Q, just out of arm’s reach, and extended the envelope.

Q took the envelope automatically and nodded. “Thank you,” he said, thinking that James would know details. He’d know which country Alec was in; he might even know what the mission was. But even with a country — or, better, a city — Q would be able to find out more. He could guess at what Alec was doing. If he was somewhere civilised, he might even be able to _find_ Alec, though that naturally posed a security risk, if Alec’s enemies detected Q’s snooping.

Not that they would. There weren’t a half dozen people in the world who had a chance at catching him.

He could start with airports, unless Alec was taking military transport. Did MI6 use military transport? They were MOD, but James and Alec both looked like civilians. Well, Alec did, at least, with his longer hair; surely that wasn’t regulation. Military transports drew notice in most parts of the world, though. That made civilian transportation much more likely. Of course, if it was local — Paris, say — Alec might well have taken the train or even a car. But train stations had cameras, as did all border entry and exit points. He knew where to lift the code for facial recognition software, and if he tapped into the processing power of the hackerspace servers in addition to his own, he could scan through —

The sudden press of something cold into Q’s hand interrupted his train of thought. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say you look worried. You shouldn’t be. Alec is exceptional at his job.” Bond touched Q’s shoulder, lightly directing him to one of the armchairs. “Please, have a seat.”

Q sat, red envelope in one hand, glass in the other. He drank thoughtlessly, and then huffed out a surprised breath when the burn hit. He never drank alcohol while coding — not after a couple of disasters requiring him to restore from backup — and had slipped into that mindset. He’d been expecting Coke.

“Do you know where?” he asked, trying to sound casual. The scotch didn’t help, though it did hopefully cover up any suspicious tension in his voice.

“Yes,” James responded simply, sitting across from Q. He took a sip of his own drink, watching Q for a moment. “You look like you could use a distraction.”

A distraction? Q would have much preferred an _answer_. He took another drink, better prepared for it this time, and directly asked, “Where is he?” He went to flatten his hand on the armrest, knowing that he had the bad habit of twitching his fingers when he was anxious and away from a keyboard, but he realised he was still holding the envelope. He stared at it, wondering what it had to do with Alec being in danger.

“Out of the country. And if I tell you where, I’m sure you’ll spend the rest of the evening try to track him down instead of making use of the tickets Alec went to so much trouble to get for you.” James glanced at the envelope, then back at Q. “If you’d like to go, of course.”

Tickets. That made sense. Q finished his drink before he set the glass down on the coffee table and opened the envelope. The two tickets for ice skating at Canary Wharf made him smile, thinking that Alec had certainly managed to catch him by surprise. The other two tickets, though, left him wondering if Alec had used the envelope to store something else and then forgotten.

“I can find —” he started to say, distractedly, before he caught himself. He stared at the two other tickets, hoping that James would assume he was confused about them rather than suggesting that he could hack the security systems at international travel hubs to track down a covert government operative. “We can probably reschedule. Or get him a refund,” he finished a bit desperately. At least the hand-printed tickets had a phone number. “I can find out.”

“It takes months to rebook the Fox’s Den tickets,” James said. “And may I suggest that you not try to break into our servers anymore? Our employers don’t take hackers lightly, and even geniuses can get into trouble for that sort of thing.” He took another small drink of scotch.

“I wasn’t —” Q snapped immediately. He was _positive_ he hadn’t been detected.

Then he realised what he’d said and flinched, his eyes going to the door behind James as if expecting an MI6 security team to jump out and arrest him. The thought of being caught, absurd as it was, paralysed him.

No, not the thought of being caught. The thought of being arrested. Going to jail. Being _trapped_.

“Q,” James said gently, leaning closer. “You’re fine. You weren’t caught. I just know your type of curiosity.” He looked down at his shoes, mouth twitching in what might have been a wry grin. “That, combined with what you observed in the tunnels, would naturally lead you to a better understanding of what Alec and I do.” He met Q’s eyes. “It’s fine. But you need to be careful. Laws are laws, and neither Alec nor I would like to have to break you out of prison.”

Hearing the word — actually _hearing it_ — made Q’s chest and throat lock up tight. He wanted to run but he didn’t dare move out of some misguided primal instinct that staying absolutely still would let him spontaneously turn invisible. He was conscious of it, just as he was conscious that James was still talking, but he had no ability to actually _do anything_ but silently panic.

A gentle hand on his knee made him flinch in surprise. “Would you like to go ice skating? Take your mind off Alec?”

Q stared at him, trying to read anything in him beyond the fact that he really did have gorgeous eyes, but Q didn’t do _people_. James might be absolutely sincere, or he might be waiting to catch Q off his guard. Or _more_ off his guard.

But there was no immediate threat. Q took a breath, though it was forced and stuttered. His next one was only a little easier. He swallowed, which helped a bit. “Will you tell me where he’s gone?”

“It’s illegal for me to say anything, Q. I’m sorry. But he’s fine. Having a great time, I’m sure.” James leaned back, the grin returning. “We’re very good at our jobs. Now, would you like to make use of these tickets?”

Q wanted to protest, but he recognised that the impulse came from that part of him that had no sense of self-preservation. When he wanted information — _needed_ it — he’d take steps that others would consider reckless. Fear stopped him from pushing, though, and he reassured himself that he’d be able to find Alec even without a destination city. It would just take him longer. Significantly longer. And it would be risky, requiring another network break-in, but it wasn’t outside the reach of his skills.

He couldn’t afford to go directly home. He’d succumb to temptation, and James might well alert MI6 of the possible intrusion. If they were waiting for him, he _might_ get caught.

And a small part of him — that part detached from his still-stinging ego — really did enjoy being with James. It wouldn’t even be cheating; at the start of their date last week, Alec had told him as much. Not that this would be a proper date. James had made his lack of interest entirely clear. But he could go out with James as friends and enjoy the ice skating and...

He looked down at the other set of tickets, slightly crumpled. “The Fox’s Den?” he read, suddenly realising why there would be a date and phone number but no location; that could make things more than a little awkward. He looked back at James and asked, “Is this a sex club?”

James laughed, open and honest, watching Q with amusement. “Fair question, since Alec was the one who bought the tickets. But no, it’s not a sex club. It’s a restaurant, of sorts. A restaurant for those with adventurous tastes when it comes to the culinary arts.” James stood, still smiling, and went back to the kitchenette. “Would you like me to take you?”

Panic, scotch, and the bizarre possibility of a sex club didn’t go well with that question. Q felt his cheeks grow hot and looked down at the tickets to hide his face. How was he supposed to know what the tickets were for? Alec hadn’t told him — only that he was going to try for ‘exotic’. And a restaurant, no matter how adventurous, was decidedly _less_ exotic than... where Q’s mind had gone.

“You don’t have to. It looks like you have other plans,” he said, impressed at just how steady his voice was. Not looking at James helped. Looking would lead to remembering their kiss, and that would definitely be awkward.

“Actually, I wasn’t aware the tickets were for you and him. I was going to find company and make use of them myself.” James finished his drink and set the glass by the sink. “But having you here certainly makes the ‘finding company’ part of that easier. And I’d love to hear about anything new you’ve discovered in your exploration of the tunnels.”

Q tried to hide his relieved exhale. At least James was too polite to openly notice or comment. He could live with being convenient as opposed to actually _wanted_ company; it would be hypocritical for him to take offence, given that he’d also expected to go out with someone else tonight. Besides, they’d be going as friends — nothing more.

So he stood, just a bit tentatively, still feeling the adrenaline rush of panic. When he felt confident that he wouldn’t trip over his own feet, he picked up his glass and said, “All right. I’d like that.” Though he’d be damned if he’d allow James to bring up the tunnels again.

 

~~~

 

 _What the fuck am I doing?_ Bond asked himself. He had no business going on a date with Q, even just as friends. He told himself it was to keep Q occupied and diverted. To keep the edge of panic and curiosity that seemed to ebb and flow over Q’s skittish personality at the slightest provocation at bay. And selfishly, to give himself the opportunity of good company on short notice.

So he’d take Q out, keep it to talk about mutual interests — Alec, the hackerspace, perhaps the Arduino project — and then drop him back off in time to find some more suitable company for working off his post-mission tension. It had nothing to do with how adorable Q had looked when he opened the door, hair ruffled and a subdued smile on his face, Bond told himself. If nothing else, Alec would be pleased.

After pocketing his wallet, phone, and cigarettes, and checking to make sure the compact 9mm was secure in its holster at the small of his back, Bond stepped back out into the living room.

Q turned away from the window. He was still wearing his ridiculously over-large parka, fur-edged hood hanging down across his back and shoulders. He’d unzipped it, though, revealing a bulky jumper in natural tan wool and tight black jeans. The scarf was still wrapped around his neck as if ready to be tugged up high against the chill.

“Ready to go?” Bond asked as he turned to get his jacket, grateful for the excuse not to stare at Q. Bundled up against the cold, with snow-damp hair falling over his glasses, he was even more adorable than usual.

“Of course.” He didn’t overtly look Bond over, but he seemed to have difficulty finding a safe place for his gaze to rest.

“I have to warn you, it’s been some time since I’ve been ice skating. I thought it best to wear clothes that could take a fall or two or ten, if necessary.” He pulled on his wool overcoat on, and turned to stare at the hotel room, frowning as he buttoned up. “I lost the rest of my winter gear in the fire.”

“I’m sorry. That must have been difficult,” Q said politely. He looked down as he took hold of his parka to zip it closed. Then, as he crossed the room, he unzipped the parka enough to reach into the interior pocket; Bond saw the edge of the red envelope, which Q tucked back away before he pulled the zipper back up.

Bond smiled at Q’s quick and fussy little movements, though they only made an appearance if Q wasn’t completely focused on whatever he was working on. Bond decided to start paying more attention, using those levels of movement as a gauge for how successful the evening was going. Given Bond’s limited information, he was aware that his scale wouldn’t be quite accurate yet — all the more reason to observe more carefully.

“It was more of an inconvenience than anything,” Bond admitted. He walked past Q to the front door, opening it for him. “Neither of us is much for the collection of trinkets. And we have insurance to replace what was lost.”

Q smiled in thanks as he slipped out into the hall, pulling his gloves out of his pocket. “He implied there have been other incidents. It sounds quite hazardous, both of you in one place.”

Bond chuckled as he led Q to the lift, hand behind Q’s back but carefully not touching. “That’s certainly a fair statement. There is a reason I’m using hackerspaces rather than setting up my own workshop, after all. And a reason Alec is no longer allowed to cook. _Ever_.” He pressed the button and turned to look at Q, taking in his brighter smile and more at-ease posture. No fluttering hand movements, Bond observed with satisfaction.

“I’ll take that under advisement.” Q snickered, ducking his head in amusement as his own thoughts. “Are you safer in the kitchen? Or around fire? Should I increase the insurance policy on the hackerspace?”

“I suppose that depends on your definition of safer,” Bond replied, watching Q and unable to think of any word better suited to him than _adorable_. “Unlike Alec, I don’t often let things burn unintentionally.”

A new light came to Q’s eyes as he glanced sidelong at Bond. “In 1995, Purdue University in America did some scientific tests regarding the speed of getting a barbecue to cooking temperature.” He turned as the lift doors opened, and then stepped inside. Bond followed and pressed the button for the lobby. As the lift started to descend, Q said innocently, “It was determined that liquid oxygen is the most efficient, but it bypasses optimum cooking temperature and goes right to barbecue-melting levels. I suspect he simply used too much.”

“I’ve never used rocket fuel to accelerate the barbecuing process, but I did work once with an American military group that was very creative with their cooking efforts. At various points, Murdock used napalm, gunpowder from a shotgun shells, and jet fuel to artistically blacken steaks.” Bond chuckled at the memory. “They didn’t turn out half-bad, actually.”

Somehow, he wasn’t surprised to see Q’s expression turn thoughtful. “I’ve heard of blowtorches used on aged roasts... The gunpowder would add toxic residue, though, wouldn’t it? That’s the flaw with most accelerants. And if you _start_ with the blowtorch, you get exterior blackening while the inside is still raw, unless you combine it with a temperature-monitored water bath. But that requires hours for the cooking process.”

“Why bother trying to do the entire roast at the same time? Doesn’t it make more sense to carve it into individual servings and approach the cooking process that way?” Then Bond smiled. “And at least traditional accelerants aren’t as toxic as other means of seasoning steaks in the field. Murdock used to like an antifreeze marinade...” He shuddered. “The sweet flavour was not worth it.”

Q shot him another look. “You _do_ know that’s fatal, don’t you?”

“Clearly not,” Bond said. “I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“Not for lack of trying. I’ve seen your —” he started, and cut off abruptly, going very still and a bit wide-eyed.

Bond laughed again and settled his hand gently on Q’s shoulder. “It’s fine, Q. Well, not really — it’s damned illegal and dangerous if you got caught — but I’d expect nothing less from you.” Bond squeezed lightly, in what he hoped Q knew was a comforting gesture, and pulled his hand back. “My file tends to be rather overdramatic. Just a few close calls.” He sighed. “I’m very good at resurrection.”

“Or very good at taking ridiculous risks that you survive only because the universe is shocked that someone was actually foolish enough to _try_ them,” Q accused. As the lift doors opened at the foyer, he glanced at Bond and asked, “Will you tell me where Alec is?”

“What would you do with the information?” Bond challenged. Q might just want to check up on Alec, which was admittedly gratifying. On the other hand, Q might decide he could _help_ Alec in some way, which could end up being very, very bad. Not that Bond didn’t believe that Q was fully capable as a hacker, but if he ended up interfering with the efforts of TSS, or startling Alec with his uncalled-for assistance, it could get him killed. He held his hand out to keep the lift doors from closing, but didn’t step out yet.

Q didn’t answer right away; his silence felt more introspective, though, rather than panicked. He looked down and licked his lips. “I’d simply like to know that he’s” — he hesitated — “as safe as can be expected.” He looked unhappy with his choice of words.

“Now, there are three possible interpretations I could take from that,” Bond said quietly. “First, and least likely, is that you’ll take the information, smile and nod, and accept that Alec is perfectly capable of doing his job there without getting hurt. Second, and somewhat more likely, is that you’ll use the information to track him down via whatever electronic means necessary, including CCTV, if it were available, comms scans, that sort of thing. Third, and most likely, is that you’d take the information, track Alec down, and try to help in whatever way you see fit.” Bond shook his head and stepped out of the lift, keeping his arm in place to hold the doors open for Q.

Sighing, Q walked out into the foyer. “I know better than to believe either of you is capable of avoiding injury,” he said a bit petulantly. When Bond fell into step beside him, he glanced down at Bond’s hands and hunched his shoulders a bit more. “If absolutely nothing else, you seem inordinately reliant upon physical confrontation that could be much more easily settled at a distance, with a proper scope.”

“Assumptions like that are why I can’t tell you what you want to know,” Bond said quietly. “The risks we take are always in the best interest of the task at hand, and therefore aren’t unnecessary. If you want to be in a relationship with Alec, you’re just going to have to trust him to do his job to the best of his ability and come back intact, for you.” Bond didn’t add that actually having someone to come back to would help enormously only because he didn’t think he had to. Not only would Q probably catch the concept on his own, Bond didn’t want to be the one responsible for placing any such burden on Q. Being the one a soldier came home to could be an overwhelming responsibility.

Q looked at Bond as they walked out of the lobby and into the snowy night. As he tugged his scarf up and glanced at the sky, he quietly asked, “Is that why —” He stopped himself with a little flinch and pulled up his hood. He had to push his flattened hair out of his eyes before he reached into his pocket for his gloves.

“Why what?” Bond asked, pulling his keys out of his coat pocket.

Q shook his head; instead of turning left, to go to the carpark, he went towards the valet stand. “It’s not important,” he said, almost too softly to be heard.

Bond raised an eyebrow as he watched Q walk away. “I’ll just meet you at the rink then, shall I?” he called. It was unusual for Bond’s dates to drive separately, but then again, this wasn’t a date. If... No, not if, Bond firmly reminded himself. _Because_ Bond wasn’t going to bring him home, it was probably best that they each took their own vehicles.

Q turned back, and Bond was unpleasantly surprised to see what looked like a wounded expression. “You — If you prefer...” he said uncertainly.

Bond watched him for a surprised moment, torn between wanting to keep things comfortably distanced and wanting to keep Q happy. The fact that he already knew what kind of car Q drove helped significantly — knowing that Q drove a Land Rover instead of a Mini Cooper was absolutely a factor in Q’s favour. Bond chuckled and walked over to Q. “It’s fine. I’m just used to being the one who drives.”

Immediately, Q relaxed. He gave Bond a quick smile, handed the valet ticket to the attendant, and said, “You can drive, if you’d prefer. I feel — My truck is better suited for the weather.”

Bond catalogued the body language and the expression, recognising it as Q’s usual brand of embarrassed evasiveness. “Among other things, I suspect,” he said with a grin.

His suspicions were confirmed a few minutes later, when he got into the driver’s seat and had to work to close the door. He didn’t strain his already-wounded shoulder only because he had experience with reinforced vehicle doors, though he hadn’t been expecting it. An enhanced engine, aftermarket exhaust, even suspension modifications, yes. Steel or kevlar plates in the doors? And what he suspected was bullet-resistant glass? That seemed a bit excessive for London.

Well, until Bond though about Q’s file. Q had dealt with enough unpleasantness in his life, and Bond actually considered it somewhat remarkable that Q was as functional as he was. Bond had known victims of violence who never managed to fully recover, becoming shadows of their former selves, prone to crippling paranoia and panic attacks.

Bond cast a quick look at Q as he started the Rover. Q was no victim. If it took a heavily modified truck to keep him happy in the world, Bond could understand that. Though it did make the relatively unsecure flat seem even less wise.

Q didn’t seem uncomfortable in the passenger seat. After pushing back his hood, he buckled his seatbelt and reached forward to adjust the heater vents. The stereo was already on, playing the same sort of music Q had been listening to in his office. “Do you need the GPS?” he offered, one hand going to the centre console compartment.

“No, thank you,” Bond responded, feeling the heavy grumble of the modified engine in the steering wheel. “I like what you’ve done with this beauty,” he said, stroking the dash appreciatively.

“It was surprisingly simple,” Q said proudly. “I hadn’t done much work with internal combustion engines before — or vehicles in general, really. My first attempt was on a junkyard restoration truck, before I opened up this one.” He winced and added, “I didn’t realise quite how critical it was to keep the weight under control. It handled like a dying whale.”

Bond laughed as he pulled out into traffic, thinking about wide turns, slow reactions, and minor crashes into stacks of crushed vehicles. “Please tell me you did your test driving in the junkyard and not on a road.”

Q’s guilty look was answer enough. He met Bond’s eyes and looked away, embarrassed. “I didn’t _expect_ it to be quite that bad. The simulations didn’t predict such sluggish responsiveness. Of course, I was using a gaming platform for the physics engine. Perhaps it would’ve been more realistic if I put antigrav and laser weapons on it,” he added with an amused little huff.

“You use a gaming platform for engineering simulation,” Bond stated rather than asked. Then he laughed again. “Christ, Q. You’re quite something, aren’t you?” _Genius indeed_ , he thought with amusement. “What other modifications?”

“Upgraded brakes and suspension, run-flat tyres, assault rifle plates in the doors, additional armouring around the engine compartment, a secondary fuel tank, an AC power adapter, and improved surround sound.”

“I’m so glad you didn’t forget to upgrade the stereo in your modifications,” Bond said, deeply amused by the idea of an aftermarket subwoofer somewhere in the vehicle. “I think a demonstration is in order.”

“Please don’t shoot my truck,” Q said seriously.

“I’d repair the damage,” Bond said with an entirely straight face — which he managed to hold for all of three seconds before bursting into laughter. “I meant the sound system.”

Q glared, though he couldn’t quite hide all traces of a smile. He leaned forward and turned up the volume. “Put on whatever you like. It’s satellite radio, so there’s everything to be found.” He twisted a bit in his seat to better face Bond, folding one leg under the other. “What _do_ you like?”

“I like the blues, actually,” Bond said with a smile as he tested the efficiency of the brakes at a stop light. The brake system must have been adjusted as well, he realised, as the vehicle stopped without issue, despite the additional weight and the slightly slick roads. “Stevie Ray Vaughn, Hubert Sumlin, Long John Hunter, Tony Furtado...” He grinned at Q. “The Americans can be blamed for some serious atrocities against musical instruments, but Southern Blues is not one of them.”

Q’s expression turned surprised. Then he grinned and started poking at the touchscreen built into the dash. “I would have expected classical. Alec said you have season tickets to the symphony and opera.”

“I do, and I do enjoy both. But we’re in a heavily modified Land Rover, heading towards an ice skating rink, to be followed up with dinner at a restaurant that doesn’t believe in such things as import regulations. I think this is an evening better suited to something slightly less formal, don’t you?” Bond grinned. “Have you ever heard a slide guitar being played well?”

“I didn’t say I object,” Q answered a bit smugly. He stopped on a station halfway through Creedence Clearwater Revival’s _Down on the Corner_ and leaned back, turning a bit more, almost sideways in his seat. “I haven’t been to the opera in years. Or any concert, actually.”

Bond nodded, thinking about the uncontrollable press of people and the security problems concerts presented. “I can understand that. If you’d ever like to go, I’m more than happy to...” He stopped, catching himself. “Alec knows how to reserve them. I’m sure he’d be happy to take you.”

Q turned away to look out the windscreen. “I’ll speak with him about it,” he said more quietly.

Regretting the subdued turn the conversation had taken, Bond turned back to focus on the road. He was tempted to sing along, just to break the heavy silence. He wasn’t a good singer, but it would probably make Q laugh.

“What kind of music do you like?” Bond asked instead.

“Anything, really. Some of the hackerspace members have been experimenting with remixes. They’re available on the open server,” Q answered, though without any of his previous enthusiasm. “You don’t need to feel obliged to entertain me tonight, James. You’re welcome to the tickets. I have more than enough work backlogged.”

Bond was still far too high off the success of his most recent mission to let himself get dragged down by the sad fact that he wasn’t Q’s boyfriend, so he didn’t bother with polite acquiescence.

“I’m in an exceptional mood after a recent job well done, Q,” Bond said with a chuckle. “And there is too much fun to be had in London tonight to sit in an impersonal hotel room, restless with boredom. I’d prefer your proven company to going alone, but if you’ve changed your mind, I’ll drop you back home and take the Tube.”

“You know as well as I do that you wouldn’t _stay_ alone unless that was your choice,” Q snapped before turning away, hunching deeper into his parka as though embarrassed at his outburst.

“And deprive you of the opportunity to watch me fall on my arse on ice skates?” Bond asked with amusement, feeling his shoulders relax under Vaughn’s masterful guitar solo of _Little Wing_. “Like I said, Q, I prefer your company. You’re not vapid or tedious, and I may have the slightly selfish motivation of wanting to ask your opinion on some work I’m doing with an Arduino board.”

Q took a deep breath and nodded, still not looking at Bond. “If you change your mind, I’m happy to help you at the workshop, whenever is convenient,” he answered. “It’s Friday night. You should be — do something you enjoy. You rarely get time off.”

“Well, I’m glad we’re agreed on that point,” Bond said cheerfully as Canary Wharf came into view. In the evening dark, the fairy lights glowed beautifully. “I hope you’re a bit more stable on skates than I probably am. I may be tempted to catch your shoulder rather than fall. I’d hate to take you down with me.”

“Are you _intentionally_ —” Q began. Then he shook his head and instead asked, “Did you just return from the field?”

“Yes, I did,” Bond said, circling to find a parking spot, fully aware of the probably ridiculous grin that was plastered on his face. “Just an hour or so before you showed up, actually. I...” he hesitated, though the smile never left his face as he pulled into a parking spot. “I did well, Q. Very well.”

“You should celebrate with someone special, then,” Q said a touch bitterly. “It’s not that I’m not happy for you — I am — but you made your feelings about me perfectly clear. You don’t need to pretend enthusiasm to get my help with your programming.”

Bond left the car running as he looked over at Q. “My feelings about you,” he repeated with a somewhat exasperated sigh. “You _are_ special to me, Q. Special enough that I don’t want to damage you with what would have ended up being a destructive relationship with me. Because I _am_ destructive, as you’ve noticed.” Bond shook his head. “I’m not pretending anything. I’d like to celebrate my success with you.”

“I’m not a child, James. I don’t need to be protected from bad decisions. I’m fully aware of what both you and Alec are. And if you recall, _I_ wasn’t the one who proposed such an unconventional arrangement in the first place.” He let out a sharp breath and busied himself with his scarf. “‘Unhealthily self-destructive tendencies’. That’s what your file says about you.”

“And that’s putting it mildly,” Bond said, gripping the steering wheel tightly. “Because if it were limited to me, I’d be fine with that. But I don’t think you realise... my file probably doesn’t tell you...” Bond closed his eyes, focusing on the music for a long moment. “As someone who clearly values his safety, you shouldn’t want to have anything to do with me.”

“I’ve never been ‘safe’,” Q muttered, sinking into his parka. “It’s fine, James. I’m not going to attempt to convince you. But you should at least be aware of what you do to yourself. What you do with that knowledge is your choice. Shall we go?” He nodded out at the ice rink.

Bond didn’t know whether to laugh, roll his eyes, or berate himself for his foolishness and walk away, leaving Q with his tickets, his car, and his annoying insights. He chose none of those options — merely tossed the keys for Q to catch before getting out of the Rover. He stepped out and onto the kerb, watching his exhales freeze in big puffs of air.

Bond watched the men and women passing him on the street, utterly wrapped up in themselves and their safe lives, celebrating the beautiful night. For once, Bond wanted to be one of them, laughing and joking with someone he had a real connection with — friend or partner. The thought of leaving Q behind, of seeking out yet another forgettable one-night stand, was absolutely depressing. For once, he didn’t want disposable, easily found, easily forgotten. He wanted Q, who, against all odds, knew more about him than anyone but Alec, and still hadn’t left. Even if he couldn’t risk a romantic relationship, he ached for the possibilities of friendship.

But he’d leave the decision in Q’s hands.


	10. Chapter 10

**Friday, 25 January 2013**

As it turned out, Q was an accomplished skater, though he couldn’t do anything fancier than stopping with a spray of ice. He was fast, though, much faster than Bond even after his body remembered how to move without twisting an ankle or falling on his arse, and for all that Q looked as if he should be clumsier than a baby giraffe learning to walk, he moved with lithe grace.

The ice rink had been expanded to include a path winding through the trees, providing obstacles to capture the unwary. Q slipped around them like a snake, losing himself in physical exertion for the first fifteen or twenty minutes before he returned to Bond’s side, looking far more relaxed than before.

“Are you getting tired?” he asked, catching up with Bond under one of the trees, strung with white fairy lights. He’d moved out of the crowd and was debating breaking the no smoking rule.

“Merely contemplating the merits of a cigarette versus the odds of having to escape any officer unlucky enough to try and give me an ASBO,” Bond confessed, happily taking in the rare image of a smiling, red-faced, relaxed Q. “You’re quite enjoying yourself, though. I wish I had that kind of grace.”

“It’s the challenge of turning a simple machine” — he lifted one foot without losing his balance on the other blade — “into a means of adding speed to your body’s inherent movement without killing yourself.”

Bond cast one last calculating gaze around — still too many officers of the peace wandering around for an attempt at a cigarette — and pushed himself off the tree. “Perhaps now that you’ve expended some of your natural energy I’ll have a chance at keeping up with you.” He smiled at Q before heading down the path.

“I’m sorry. I thought you’d prefer to be alone for a bit,” Q answered, gliding along beside him with ease. “Really, I apologise for my behaviour tonight. I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable or to pressure you in any way. I... specifically avoid serious relationships due to their inherent complications.”

Bond relaxed a little, feeling a knot of tension in his chest unfurl slightly. “I know all about that approach, I’m afraid,” he said, straightening. Taking a risk, he held out his uninjured arm for Q to loop his through if he liked. “Friends?”

Q’s smile didn’t quite reach his eyes, though there was nothing false about it. He took Bond’s arm and nodded. “Of course. It was never my intent to make you think otherwise.”

 

~~~

 

The night would have been perfect, except for three things: the snow, the fact that James really was charming when he set his mind to it, and the knowledge that, charming or not, James _wouldn’t_ be inviting Q back to the hotel with him. Q attempted to look at the evening in a pragmatic way. After all, going out ice skating, something he hadn’t done for years, was better than sitting at home with the ferrets or lurking in the hackerspace. And it wasn’t as if he had passed up a better offer — not with Alec out of town. But all that was little comfort in the face of his growing attraction.

Why the _hell_ had James been such an arse in the tunnels, only to be the complete opposite now? It couldn’t be something so simple as an apparently successful overseas mission, could it? The more Q considered the possibility, the more he realised that was probably it after all. Job satisfaction was the type of thing that affected everyone from office workers to tradesmen long after they left work for the day, and apparently that held true for secret agents, too.

With some effort, Q managed to not let the evening’s disappointment end get in the way of enjoying himself. He encouraged James to a bit more speed, stopped and sat with him for a little while on one of the benches, and by the time they were removing their skates, he was admittedly having a better time than he’d expected, given their conversation in the car.

“I hope the restaurant’s in the GPS,” Q said after they’d turned in their rental skates and put their shoes back on. “The tickets don’t list an address.”

“It’s not in the GPS,” James said with a chuckle. “Don’t worry. I phoned them for the location, and I know how to get there. You’re going to _love_ it. Alec has flawless taste and excellent connections, and tonight’s location suits your interests perfectly.”

Intrigued, Q asked, “Tonight’s location?”

“The Fox’s Den moves around. There’s no permanent location. The chefs set up everything at different sites and build a thematic menu around each one. There won’t be more than a dozen guests there.”

Q grinned, suddenly understanding that this might well be the epicurean equivalent of hacking. “It sounds intriguing,” he added, wishing that Alec were here so he could show his appreciation for his foresight in planning the evening. It really had been perfect. _Would have been_ perfect, he corrected mentally.

“I won’t even tell you the best part, yet,” James said, taking Q’s arm again as he led them back to the parking spot. “You’ll see for yourself. But I should probably ask, first, in case Alec didn’t. You’re not allergic to anything, are you? They don’t tend to reveal their ingredients.”

“Not at all.” Q glanced at James, wondering if his appreciation of such a ‘restaurant’ — his and Alec’s, in fact — was a reflection of those lines in his psych file: self-destructive, risk-taking, adrenaline addict. Most likely it was, for both of them. For them, there wouldn’t be a risk in going to the symphony or opera, with box seats for the season — an easy way to predict where a potential target might be on a particular date and time. They’d have to find their danger some other way. So where did Q fit in? He was quite the opposite of dangerous, especially when compared to James and Alec.

When they made their way to the car, James stood by the door, looking happier and more relaxed than Q had seen him yet. James released his arm then gave him a crooked grin, and the sudden light in his eyes made Q wonder, breathlessly, if James was about to try to kiss him again. It wasn’t panic that swept through him — not quite — but something very close to it. Should he allow it? He wanted to, and Alec had made it very clear that he was fine with anything at all that Q might want to do with James, but was it wise to open himself up to that vulnerability again? James’ behaviour didn’t precisely inspire confidence.

He still hadn’t decided when James spoke up: “May I have the keys back?”

Q looked away, feeling the light, casual words like a physical blow. He covered his expression by looking down to pull off his gloves so he could fish out the keys. “Sorry,” he murmured. He took them from his pocket and handed them to James, taking a breath to keep himself steady and calm. “I forgot I had them.”

James took the keys, ungloved fingers red from the cold, and unlocked the car. “Unless I’m actually behind the wheel, I promise that you’ll always have them in your pocket,” James said in a reassuring tone. He held open the passenger door for Q to climb up into.

That wasn’t Q’s concern at all, but he gave what he hoped was a reassuring smile and got into the passenger seat. As James closed the door and circled around, Q wondered if it wasn’t far too late for him to make his escape. The memory of the electric, toe-curling pleasure of James’ kiss had been almost lost under the experience in the tunnels, making it easier for Q to focus on James’ rejection and the fact that they _weren’t_ dating. But if _this_ had been their first date?

He’d be completely lost, just as he’d been with Alec a week ago, when Alec had proved himself to be kind, witty, and utterly charming company.

Really, Q should never have let them down into the tunnels. He had more than enough friends who shared his passion for urban exploration and the forgotten remnants of civilisation. Then he wouldn’t be in this mess, falling for someone with whom he didn’t have a chance.

He was startled out of his morose thoughts by the sudden blast of cold air from the heating vents. He jumped against the seatbelt and reached forward, turning off the heater until the engine warmed up. It would only be a couple of minutes.

“Sorry,” James said apologetically. He glanced over at Q’s shivering frame and immediately started unbuttoning his overcoat. “I didn’t expect the temperature to drop so fast. I hope they have space heaters at the Fox’s Den.” He shrugged out of the coat once it was unbuttoned and spread it over Q like a blanket. Then he turned to focus on his mirrors as he carefully but confidently pulled out of the parking spot and into traffic, singing along with the song on the radio. Q caught words about truth, lies, wrong not being able to be undone... The display on the radio receiver announced in bright green that it was _Blue on Black_ by Kenny Wayne Shepherd.

Q looked down at the overcoat, then at James, a bit frustrated. How could he be so stubborn, self-destructive, and flat-out idiotic, and yet also be kind and brilliant?

He sighed and got comfortable, reluctantly pushing the coat aside after only a few minutes; with this much power, the engine had no choice but to warm up quickly. “Thank you,” he said quietly, reminding himself not to read anything into James’ courtesy. That was all it was: courtesy.

“You’re welcome,” James said, eyes on the road as he merged onto the A4. “Have you always enjoyed ice skating?”

“It’s been a while,” Q said evasively, skirting the memory. He’d learned to ice skate long ago and ended up going again every few years by circumstance, not necessarily choice. It wasn’t that he minded it; quite the opposite. There was just the threat of old memories resurfacing, ones he’d worked hard to bury, at least emotionally. “Alec said he’s Russian. I suppose that’s why he chose skating. It’s very popular there, isn’t it?”

“Not much to do in a closed rural town other than drink and skate and sled,” James said. “Well, that’s not actually true, but Alec would kill me if I said anything more.”

Closed rural town? Q wondered about that, but it sounded like something he could research. It felt rude to discuss Alec with James, as if James were somehow uninteresting. Which he wasn’t — not at all. Of course, showing too much interest was equally awkward, after James had made his feelings clear, and given that this wasn’t supposed to be a date with him. At least not with the two of them.

Q tried to think of something to say, but his mind had stalled. In one direction lay Alec — interesting, still a bit sharp-edged, but generally enthusiastic about having fun on a date. In the other lay the black pit of memories that Q didn’t want to face with anyone — not James, Alec, or _anyone_. He could ask about where they were going, but James seemed to want to keep it a surprise. Asking about skating seemed inane; obviously James didn’t go often and hadn’t gone recently, or he would’ve been more proficient.

The vague desire to be back at Nova Prospekt inspired him to ask, “What project are you working on? With the Arduino board?”

“I hope that being able to control the house with a computer or tablet, from the security system to the stove to the damn toaster, will help prevent accidents like the fire.”

“You could set up automatic response functions. Analogue or digital inputs and simple setpoints for action thresholds,” Q suggested, perking up a bit. “If you gave it communications capability, you could have it text you with alerts.”

“That’s the intention,” James said with easy agreement. “I’ve done some trial runs building smaller, individualized projects — like the automation of coffee using Twitter, face detection, and tracking with individual cameras. And” — he glanced at Q with a crooked grin — “the flame-throwing pumpkin project I found on Instructables. Now it’s a matter of setting up systemized automatic responses. Facial recognition triggers the flame-throwing pumpkin, for instance.”

Immediately Q thought about using facial recognition to find and track Alec out in the field. If he could _legitimately_ get a copy of whatever code MI6 used, he’d not only have a starting point, however poor; he’d be able to modify it and then release it into the wild with additional code to alert him — discreetly — if certain key biometrics were discovered. He’d have to include sufficient variance to not _specifically_ target Alec, but even filtering out the gross mismatches would dramatically reduce the processing power he needed.

Besides, the alternative was to hack one of the facial recognition system development companies, and commercial hacking was boring.

“You do realise that would only increase the chance of another house fire, don’t you?” he felt obliged to point out.

James laughed. “Minor details. I won’t actually use a pumpkin — they expire too fast for my tastes. A shotgun is probably a better idea.”

“Too easy to avoid. A flamethrower with liquid fuel would at least give splash —” He stopped himself and shot a look at James, wondering if he should be discussing this seriously. Was this entrapment?

“Perhaps the flamethrower directed at a wall that’s been made fireproof?” James said consideringly. “Firebrick as a backsplash wouldn’t be difficult to disguise as something rustic.”

“This will only encourage Alec’s incendiary tendencies. Electricity makes a much more effective, subtle deterrent. Door handles are often metal.”

“Yes, but the time to run facial recognition and trigger that sort of automatic response would be significantly shorter than something that doesn’t require skin-to-trigger contact.” Then he looked over at Q, something like appreciation on his face. “Other suggestions?”

“Strengthened outer perimeter. The more forewarning you have, the better. With your authorisation, you could probably legitimately tap or even install local CCTV cameras. Licence plate and facial recognition. Tie into local and border agency databases. Failsafe for unrecognised individuals. If the enemy’s at your door, you’ve lost half the battle already.”

James was silent for a several moments as he navigated London traffic, humming along with the song on the radio. Then he glanced at Q. “And for the inner perimeter?”

“Outer perimeter is identification and forewarning; inner perimeter is for delay. Your goal isn’t to irritate them with buckshot or fire but to delay them to give you time to escape or reach a defensible position — a safe room, if necessary, though that’s always the last resort. Under almost every circumstance, you’re better off wounding than killing. An organised group — military, for example — will take their wounded with them, slowing them down.”

“And if you had unlimited resources to set up any sort of inner perimeter you wanted? You would still focus on escape rather than... subduing the enemy?”

“I’m a survivor,” Q said softly. He shoved his hands into the pockets of his parka to hide how hard he was digging his nails into his palms. “There’s no reason for me to stand and defend a piece of land or a room or _things_. Everything I have can be recreated, except for myself.”

“Fair enough,” James said easily. “Alec doesn’t share that opinion, of course. Though it would be a matter of him defending you, not your things, of course. I hope that doesn’t bother you.”

Q was of two minds about that. Nice as it would be to have someone he could trust — someone actually _capable_ of protecting him, rather than being willing and inept — he couldn’t bear to slot Alec into the most violent of his memories. Intellectually, he knew that Alec probably faced worse every time he went out into the field, but that was different. That was for England, which Alec loved, for some unfathomable reason. Q couldn’t carry the responsibility of Alec bleeding to protect _him_.

Not that it would happen. Q would be careful. _More_ careful. Starting with not discussing ridiculous home defence theories as proof that he was paranoid and had put far too many hours of thought into such things. And there was the matter of his Land Rover being an armoured vehicle.

God, what the hell was he thinking? Showing the Land Rover first to Alec and now to James, revealing his theories on security.

Hormones. That had to be the only explanation, because he didn’t normally take risks like this. He forced his fists to unclench — not that it helped with the other new tension creeping through him as he considered that his hormones were entirely justified in overreacting to James’ presence.

Of course, they might already have used their own considerable resources to find out about him. They might all be playing a ridiculous game of _Guess Who_ , pretending they hadn’t already seen the cards.

“There are other projects for Arduino that I’ve considered simply as a building and programming exercise,” James continued with a concerned glance in Q’s direction. “I’m actually quite enamoured of the simple LED cube projects. I’ve thought about various approaches to make the build more challenging, such as wiring each light to an individual process. Perhaps have them light up in response to music, or a dart board, or even a calisthenics routine.”

Q couldn’t quite keep from wrinkling his nose. “Aren’t you a bit advanced for that?” he asked, looking at James. “LEDs are the equivalent of ‘Hello World’ programming.”

“Only if you’re just programming them to turn off and on,” James pointed out. “There’s an art to lights displays, especially if they’re set up to be responsive. And don’t forget that I don’t actually get to spend much time at home. Sometimes the simple but finished project might give a better sense of accomplishment than a long-term, complicated, and unfinished project can.”

Q nodded, though he couldn’t bring himself to agree. It felt more like a waste of time to him, but he didn’t say that. “Is there any help you need with that?” he offered.

“Not in the least.” James said. “That sort of project isn’t challenging in the slightest. It’s stress relief, pure and simple. I can’t imagine you’d get any enjoyment out of it.”

“You could modularise your larger project and work on it one element at a time,” Q suggested. “Or you could weaponise the LED cube.”

James burst into laughter, face transforming with mirth as he sped around the cars on the highway. “Believe it or not, I don’t feel the need to weaponise everything, Q. Some things I actually like to make for the sheer aesthetic value of it.” He took his eyes off the road long enough to give Q a crooked grin, shaking his head. “What must you think of me,” he said with quiet amusement.

Q glanced at him before forcing a little smile and hiding a sigh. He’d actually _liked_ the idea of weaponising it. People were compulsive about touching things that illuminated. It would be all too easy to include a couple of ‘decorative’ stripped wires. He could probably even build a reactive light display, leave it electrified, and call it interactive performance art.

“What’s wrong?” James asked quietly, glancing over when Q didn’t answer.

“Nothing,” Q lied. Badly, but that was to be expected. He looked determinedly out the windscreen, watching the wipers deal with the thick, falling snow. He caught himself clenching his fists again and tried to stop before he ended up hurting himself, though his fingers already ached. “Why do I feel as though I can’t ever say the _right_ thing to you?”

“I’m sorry if I have ever given you the impression that you have ever said anything _wrong_ to me, Q,” James with a sigh. “Short of sharing a plot to murder a British citizen or attack England’s interests, you really can’t go wrong.”

 _But you don’t want me_ , Q thought, knuckles aching, and he couldn’t think of anything to say in response.

 

~~~

 

Bond looked over at Q one more time before turning his attention back to the road. Q hadn’t answered him and seemed to be locked in some sort of internal debate with himself, and a quick glance at the strain in his shoulders and the lumps in his pockets told Bond that Q was clenching his hands very, very tightly.

It wasn’t fair, what he was doing to Q, Bond decided. Even just simple conversations about mutual interests (how the hell had he managed to fuck up a conversation about LED cubes, for Christ’s sake?) seemed to be laden with minefields. Q obviously wasn’t comfortable with him — which he’d known from the start. He’d foolishly thought that wrapping an outing in the context of friendship would make a significant difference in their interactions. But clearly, he’d been mistaken.

But Bond wasn’t exactly sure _where_ he’d gone wrong. He didn’t know what it was about him that had Q so on edge. Bond liked to think that he and Alec weren’t all that different — but obviously that wasn’t the case. There was something about him that made Q unhappy and upset, whereas he seemed completely at ease with Alec.

As tempted as he was to call the rest of the evening off, however, he decided against it. The Fox’s Den was going to be an amazing treat for Q, and Bond was damn sure not going to ruin it for him. He’d just have to find a way around the tension, keep Q at ease for what little time they had left for the remainder of the evening, and then never, ever repeat the mistake.

The thought settled uncomfortably in the bottom of his stomach, but Bond pushed the emotion away as he struggled to find a topic of conversation that wouldn’t trigger any of Q’s discomfort. Something where there was no right or wrong answer — something completely neutral. Weather would be too obvious and pathetic, and sport was out. Work and travel were quickly dismissed as well.

“Tell me about your ferrets,” he finally said, giving Q his best charming smile. “They’re adorable little creatures. Well, at least the one who was attached to my shoulder seemed adorable. I reserve judgement on the other one.”

“Gordon likes to think he’s aggressive, but he’s not very good at it,” Q said thoughtfully. “Chell’s just learned to ignore him. That’s why she eats under her bowl. He can’t figure out how to get under there with her. He’s not very bright, which is disappointing. He’s much bigger. I’d hoped to use him to run cable, since he’s strong enough to tow a guide line.”

“Hoped, as in past tense? You’ve given up on the idea?” Bond replied, relieved that Q helpfully latched onto the topic.

“Gordon’s an absolute idiot, I’m afraid,” Q said with a faint sigh. “Chell’s much smarter, but she’s so small — and young. I doubt she’ll grow much more, though. Female ferrets are much smaller. But she’s already trained to follow a laser pointer and to take audible directions — a bell to turn left, a tap to turn right, that sort of thing. I’ve even tried to use her to guide Gordon, but he gets distracted too easily.”

“Are you going to get another one in the hopes that it will be both smart _and_ strong?” Bond asked curiously. Three ferrets seemed like a lot, but they were smaller than cats, so perhaps it was merely a matter of perspective.

“I can barely handle two. They’re more like children than pets, with the level of interactivity they require. And by the time I had a third trained to not eat my cabling, I’ll already have a robotic prototype to run cables, assuming I don’t just tear down all the interior walls in the flat and do it myself.”

“One of the Arduino projects I’ve seen that looked relatively simple to build was a robot that is programmed to not run into walls. Perhaps that could be of assistance to you. Simply include a manual override for use when it needs to turn, and it’s probably an ideal bot to run cable for you,” Bond suggested brightly. “You’ve got enough boards to work with — even if trying to find and repair the damage is a more annoying process that one might think.”

Q shot him a quick glance. “I’m working on a proprietary design similar to the all-terrain robots built by Boston Dynamics.”

“The cement block bot,” Bond said approvingly. “Now that I’d like to see. I suggested that perhaps it would be in MI6’s best interest to send me for a quick investigation, but sadly they sent TSS techs instead.” Bond gave a sad smile at the memory — M’s face when he suggested it might be prudent to send Bond himself. _A Double O in a robotics lab? Not bloody likely._ “Most of the time it doesn’t bother me that my coworkers don’t realise that I’m a better programmer than at least sixty percent of TSS, but every once in a while it doesn’t pay to be underestimated.”

“I could show you.” Q looked at him again. “The robot. It’s still in pieces — a bit gruesome if you anthropomorphise bots, actually — but you could get the idea.”

“That would be fantastic,” Bond agreed, perhaps too enthusiastically considering his very recent decision. “You’re using hydraulics in your design as well? I imagine it must be difficult to shrink for your purposes.”

“At the moment, just servomotors,” Q said, animation finally returning to his expression. “I was considering other options. Hydraulics won’t work at all, at the scale I’m imagining. Not with any of the liquids we currently have, at least. Since it’s still a prototype, I’m willing to try anything — even magnets. I’m also trying to determine if I can use a 3D printer for manufacturing. I’m considering buying one for the hackerspace.”

“You’re kidding,” Bond said with a grin. He’d worked in a few hackerspaces that had 3D printers, but they were generally attached to a university lab — which had the side-effect of requiring far too much paperwork for Bond’s tastes. “That would be fantastic. But if you’re not using hydraulics, how are you going to keep the beast stable? Will simple springs and sensors be enough to replicate that kind of all-terrain stability and motion?”

To Bond’s delight, the last hints of reticence faded from Q’s demeanour as he launched into a complicated description of the design. It was simple, actually, but elegant, rugged, and something he could build on his own.

 _The Real World Tony Stark_ , the headline had read, and Bond watched Q drawing shapes in the air with his hands, words tumbling out in a rush as he warmed to his subject. As desperately as Bond tried not to be thoroughly and utterly charmed, he couldn’t help but sink into the conversation wholeheartedly. He asked the right questions at the right times, using every conversational trick he knew of to keep Q talking and interested and happy.

 _Stay on the topic of his pet projects_ , Bond noted to himself as he pulled into the museum’s carpark where he’d been told to leave the truck. He tried not to give even the slightest reason to stop talking, prodding about the sorts of sensors Q was building to go with his smaller version as he got out. He jogged over to the other side, this time to hold the door open for Q.

“A place like this might be optimal for all-terrain testing,” Bond suggested as he held out his arm for Q.

Q handed over Bond’s jacket, scolding, “You must be freezing. Put that on.” Only after Bond took the overcoat did Q slide out of the car and pull up his hood, glancing up at the thick snow. It was coming down harder now, though Q didn’t seem to mind. “I doubt I’ll have much cause to add wiring to a forest. Is this... wise?” he asked, sounding more sceptical than worried.

“Wise?” Bond asked with a grin. “It’s rare that adventurous and wise can be used to describe the same endeavour.” He glanced around at the small but dark wood and resisted the urge to reach for the compact 9mm tucked in its holster at his back, though he did leave his coat unbuttoned. He held out his arm again and gave Q a reassuring smile. “You’re perfectly safe with me.”

“You don’t watch many horror movies, do you?” Q asked wryly, though he took Bond’s arm. Then he let go, got his gloves out of his pockets, and took Bond’s arm again only after he’d put the gloves on.

“I’m afraid I have absolutely no interest in horror movies,” Bond confessed. All that running and screaming and blood was just a little too familiar to Bond. At least in real life, he was typically the one doing the chasing. He didn’t like sympathising with the characters who were being chased. “No offence if you like them, of course.” He glanced around briefly before leading Q towards the paved walking path that led to the park itself.

“Dark forest, snowy night, two people going on an illicit” — he faltered for an instant — “dinner. We’re dead before the opening credits, I’m afraid.”

Bond hid his smirk at the aborted illicit date comment as he scanned the trees lining the path. “This is London, not an American rural town. And you’re with one of the few people in England fully qualified to kill anyone he sees fit, for any reason he sees fit. In fact, I’m far closer to...” He stopped before he actually said _the bad guy_. His arm involuntarily tightened around Q’s as he realised that he could practically be a star in his own horror movie.

Q glanced at him, his face shadowed by his hood. “I do feel safe,” he assured Bond, “though you have blanket permission to take whatever steps you deem necessary if anyone jumps out of the bushes at us.”

“It will be a quick shot to the kneecap or head, depending on the circumstance. No fuss whatsoever. You needn’t worry,” Bond said with a chuckle. “Normally I’d say I wouldn’t want to ruin the lines of my suit with a fight, but obviously I can’t use that excuse today.”

Q’s arm tightened as he huffed in disbelief, breath fogging the air before him. “Yes, because your file indicates your peaceful, non-confrontational tendencies?” he asked wryly. “I’m not worried. I trust you. If nothing else, I know your training record, remember?”

Bond nodded, though he didn’t say anything. It was an uncomfortable reminder that Q, a civilian, knew who he was. As much as he normally didn’t feel he had anything to hide — Bond was, for the most part, proud of his service — Q lacked the military awareness that would help explain some of what he’d done. He wondered at Q’s trust in him, knowing that Bond was a cold-blooded killer.

They walked down the path in silence. The path let out at Potomac Lake, where Bond paused to allow Q to take in the view. The lake — actually a pond — was small and narrow and extremely dark. The moon was almost full, though, and the falling snow gave the night an eerie brilliance. Q leaned close against Bond’s shoulder and shivered; Bond had to resist the urge to put an arm around him.

The folly tower was a morbidly beautiful, angular structure, now derelict and shrouded in ivy. The snow highlighted the gothic arched windows and ornate construction, giving a glimpse of how the tower must have looked before time, neglect, and vandalism had taken their toll. The gate leading to the tower yard was locked with a loose chain.

Bond spotted the anomaly immediately — an off-colour shroud of what was supposed to look like leaves, draped between the building and the black iron fence that did little to keep trespassers at bay. Following the instructions he’d been given, Bond pulled open the gate, feeling a slight strain in his shoulder. He slid through, taking the lead despite the discourtesy. Q’s hand slid down his arm, and his gloved fingers laced with Bond’s. He followed without complaint, looking around.

Bond led him around the tower, to the smoothly rounded shape that failed to entirely mimic nature. He avoided commenting that the setup crew obviously had no experience with military camouflage — which it was. A length of ghillie netting formed a low tunnel between the building and the fence. Instinctively wary of being silhouetted against the night, Bond hesitated at the entrance before telling himself not to worry. Alec wouldn’t have made these reservations if it wasn’t safe.

Still, he kept his body between the entrance and Q, thinking to give him time to run in the unlikely event that something did go wrong. Taking a breath, he ducked beneath the cloth and pushed aside the tarp covering the tunnel entrance.

Beyond was a low, dimly lit space with a four people reclining on cushions against the fenced side of the tunnel. Thematically, the interior decor was also forest camouflage, though Bond was certain no army on the planet had tasselled camo pillows — at least not since the Crusades. Oil lanterns provided an unnecessarily exciting fire hazard as well as ambiance.

A thin, crouching man duck-walked from the wall-side of the enclosure. “Tickets?” he asked quietly, holding out a hand. He was dressed all in black, including a somewhat stained, burn-scarred black apron over his suit.

“Ah, I have them still,” Q said just as softly, inching up to Bond’s side. He went to one knee for better balance as he unzipped his parka and found the envelope in his pocket. He took out the two tickets and offered them to the man — presumably the chef who was their host.

To Bond’s surprise, the man examined the tickets with a blacklight torch, revealing a glowing blue-white fox’s head in the corner of on each one. Only after authenticating the tickets did the man gesture to the fenced side of the tunnel. “Take your seats, please. We’re waiting on two more guests. Tonight, you may call me Poacher,” he added with a grin as he replaced the torch in a pocket of his apron.

“Poacher. I like it,” Bond said with a smile at the host before he led Q to the fence.

The pillows were wide for one person or cosy for two, and the two other guests on the fence-side were sharing. Each pillow had a single tin plate on the groundcloth before it, with what looked like an authentic Viking-style drinking horn on its side nearby. No silverware, no napkins.

“I hope you don’t mind sharing,” Bond said close to Q’s ear. “I’ve no hat or gloves and prefer to leave my coat open for obvious reasons; I would appreciate the body heat.”

Q shot him a look, though his lips were quirked up in a smile. He sat down on the same pillow as Bond, a bit ungracefully, and pushed his hood most of the way back. “I won’t let you freeze,” he said as he unwound his scarf. He pulled it out of his coat and twisted to drape it over the back of Bond’s neck, still body-warm. He wrapped it loosely twice and tucked the ends under, making a loose drape that hung down onto Bond’s chest. “Better?”

“Yes, thank you,” Bond responded easily, though he was struggling not to reveal more appreciation than was strictly necessary. “I don’t see any glasses, but I can ask for a second, uh” — Bond cast a suspicious glance at the horn — “one of those,” he finished.

“No cheating,” the woman to Bond’s other side interrupted, twisting to look at him and Q. Her smile became a bit indulgent when she spotted Q, and a part of Bond bristled at the admiring way she looked him over. “It’s an exercise — How did they put it, love?”

“An exercise in unity,” the man on her other side said. He took his arm from around her shoulders and put out his hand with a friendly smile. “Andrew, and my fiancée, Sue. That’s Elaine and Rhona beyond us.”

“Hello,” two female voices called cheerfully from the far end of the tunnel.

“An exercise in unity,” Bond repeated. He looked over at Q, eyebrows raised. Bond didn’t care about sharing a drink or a pillow, but ‘exercises’ at dinner seemed like an exceptionally unnecessary — and probably intimate — concept. “Any objections so far?”

After an instant, Q said, “Not at all. Call me Q.” he reached past Bond to shake Andrew’s and Sue’s hands before leaning out to smile at the other couple.

At Q’s expectant expression, Bond followed suit. “James,” he introduced himself, offering his hand to each of the other diners in turn. “You’ve done this before?” he asked Andrew.

“We did the Den at Highgate Cemetery... five months ago?” Andrew asked, glancing at Sue.

“Last September,” she confirmed. “Brilliant Egyptian theme.”

“Sounds spooky,” one of the women on their other side said.

“It was. Brilliantly done. We were in a... what’s the word? Sepulchre? Crypt?” Sue asked thoughtfully.

“Crypt, yes,” Andrew said, turning to the others.

Q touched Bond’s arm, and when Bond looked back at him, he softly asked, “Are _you_ all right with this?”

“Fortunately this isn’t a cemetery or a crypt,” Bond said with a crooked smile. “It’s fine.”

Q tipped his head, getting closer to Bond. He had to pull his legs back almost to his chest to keep from kicking the plate or falling off the pillow, and it was natural for him to curl up against Bond’s body. “You’re not” — he hesitated — “put off by cemeteries, are you?”

“Only insofar as I’d rather not eat dinner at one. Though I doubt there is much actual opportunity for cross-contamination, the idea is... unpleasant,” Bond admitted. The sad fact was he had seen far too many impromptu cemeteries to ever think they’d be suitable for eating in. In a move that was as natural to him as it was for Q to curl up next to him, Bond wrapped his arm around Q, pulling him closer.

Q fitted against him perfectly. Standing, they were barely an inch apart in height, but Q’s build was slender, and his habit of slouching meant Bond’s arm could comfortably circle his body. Pressed to Bond’s side, Q was feather-light; even the thick parka couldn’t soften the sharp feel of his hipbone pressed against Bond’s. The image of his bare chest, pale skin stretched over visible ribs, was etched into Bond’s memory. He wondered if Q was still scratched from the ferrets’ claws.

The other couple arrived a few minutes later, taking the last pillow, closest to the entrance. To Bond’s relief, the space was well enough sealed from the snowy environment that it would soon warm up. For now, though, he appreciated the scarf — and no force on earth could compel him to tell Q that the waterproof parka shell was actually cold to the touch, contributing no warmth at all.


	11. Chapter 11

**Friday, 25 January 2013**

The dinner started with a somewhat flamboyant show of mixing strong, fragrant red wine with water. The clay pitcher obscured Bond’s sight of how strong the mix was, and he resolved to drink lightly.

Poacher began filling the drinking horns, offering one to each couple. Bond took it, examining the horn curiously. It was an actual horn, and Bond frowned; he would have much preferred plastic.

The other chef, who hadn’t been introduced, worked around Poacher as he used tongs to set an array of what looked like oak leaves and mushroom slices, coated with a faint sheen of oil and dusting of rock salt, onto each plate. When he reached Bond and Q, he offered the plate to Q, who took it with a quizzical smile before he glanced at Bond.

 _Forks?_ he mouthed silently at Bond.

Bond shrugged. “Excuse me, Poacher. We seem to be lacking utensils here,” he called to the chef. He suspected that the answer was that there weren’t any.

The answer — a laugh — confirmed that.

Q let out a huff but didn’t pull away. He picked up one of the leaves and gave it a tentative nibble before blinking in surprise. He folded the rest of the leaf and ate it with a little smile before looking at his hand. Forced to choose between cleaning his hand on his parka or digging out a handkerchief, if he even had one, he expediently licked his fingers clean. Bond valiantly tried not to watch, finding the sight perhaps more evocative than he had any right to.

Quietly, over the soft murmur of the other diners and what sounded like the scrape of metal cooking utensils, Q asked, “Is there something I should know about Alec and food? Here, pass that over so you can eat.”

Bond chuckled as he traded the horn for the plate. “Aside from his appreciation for it, and how much he would enjoy, uh, serving you?” Bond picked up one of the leaves and bit into it without hesitation; leaves, mushrooms, oil, and salt didn’t present any sort of challenge for his tastes. It was surprisingly good.

Q shot him another look, this one startled. It was too dark for Bond to see if he was blushing, but he suspected so. “Is — Oh,” he said, glancing away as he took a sip of the mixed wine.

The image of Q, laid out naked on his bed, being fed strawberries and chocolate, came unbidden to his imagination. He coughed to hide his reaction, trying to find something to focus on other than Q’s fingers. He passed the plate back, taking the horn in exchange, and smiled. “He’s a sensualist, our Alec. Just something to keep in mind.”

“That’s — I will,” Q murmured, picking up a slice of the mushroom. He lifted it, took an experimental bite, and licked his lips. Then he traded the plate for the drinking horn again. “I’m sorry. I _know_ this can’t have been what you were expecting tonight,” he said as he switched the horn to his other hand so he could lick his fingers clean.

“True. I didn’t have high hopes for excellent company given the short notice, so I’m exceptionally glad to have you here,” Bond said truthfully with a fond smile. “The restaurant is different, but not in a bad way. You must be enjoying it, being a fan of urban ruins exploration.”

Q grinned and whispered in Bond’s ear, “Would you like to see the tower for dessert? I have my lockpicks.”

“Absolutely,” Bond replied, knowing full well he wouldn’t be able resist any suggestion Q made with that spark of mischievousness. “I don’t have a torch on me, but I’m sure we can improvise something.” Then he paused. “Do you always carry your lockpicks?” he asked curiously.

“And a torch,” Q said, stealing back the plate, which left his hands full. He looked down at the plate and horn and took another sip before giving Bond a _do something_ look.

Before he could talk himself out of it, Bond reached for a leaf instead of for the plate or horn. “A torch _and_ lockpicks? You’re an absolute delight, you know that?” He grinned as he offered the leaf to Q, who gave only a moment’s pause before he took it in his teeth. He ate it, tipping his head back slightly, and swiped his tongue over his lower lip to catch a trace of salt.

Bond watched the quick flick of Q’s tongue with more fascination than he strictly should have allowed himself. A faint sheen of oil clung to the corner of Q’s mouth, and Bond wiped at it with his thumb before turning back to the plate. “Most of the restaurant’s profits go to help support preservation efforts, you know. It’s one of the reasons they move from place to place — they raise money for charities all over London.” He offered another leaf to Q.

“That’s lovely, but you’re going to starve like this,” Q teased, leaning forward a bit to take the leaf from Bond’s fingers. In the quiet darkness, Bond’s sense of touch was hyper-aware, and he could feel Q’s warm breath tingle over his cold hand. “I know your type.”

“Do you?” Bond asked with quiet amusement. “And here I thought I was a relatively unique sort of person.” He let his hand trace along Q’s jaw, down his shoulder, before withdrawing it. He took the plate from Q, giving him a chance to wash away some of the salt — and to help remove temptation.

Q took a breath that felt loud and sharp in the silence. “There’s a reason I asked Mr Siegel to keep the cafe open. Hackers without a convenient food source will starve in the name of soldering one more connection. You’ve just raised self-neglect to an art form,” he accused, taking the plate back so he could expectantly offer the last few morsels to Bond.

Bond couldn’t help the quiet laugh that slipped free. “Not many have accused me of self-neglect, Q. In fact, I’d go so far as to say that’s a first.” He took the horn back from Q when he was finished drinking and offered another leaf.

“Self-neglect.” Q made another expectant gesture with the plate. “I’m not going to let one of my hackers starve, James.”

“One of _your_ hackers?” Bond asked with a crooked grin, holding the offered leaf expectantly, brushing the soft edge along Q’s lips.

Maybe he imagined Q’s shiver; it was difficult to tell, wrapped as he was in his heavy parka. Q took the leaf and crunched through it, pointedly pushing the drinking horn into Bond’s hands. “I’m going to come downstairs one morning and find you barely conscious, twitching from a caffeine overdose, a half-finished LED cube on the table in front of you, aren’t I?” he asked, picking up the last leaf as soon as he had a free hand. He held it up to Bond, ordering, “Eat.”

“Not likely,” Bond said before biting halfway through the leaf and chewing thoughtfully. “The cube would be finished before I allowed myself to fall into uselessness.” He nipped the rest of the entree out of Q’s hand, letting his teeth drag very lightly over Q’s fingertips.

Q went still, though for once, it wasn’t in a bad way. He looked down at the plate, licked his lips, and lifted one of the remaining mushroom slices to Bond’s mouth. Bond took it, studying Q’s expression. He seemed to be clinging to his calm, quiet self-control to hide what was going on underneath it.

“What do you think so far?” Bond asked, taking a drink from the horn before offering it back to Q. “The lack of forks and knives isn’t too much of a problem after all, I hope?” Bond was tempted to tug Q closer, but his guess about the temperature in the room had been accurate — the increasing heat didn’t leave him with an excuse to seek closer contact.

“I’ve never even imagined anything like it,” he said with a smile. He ignored the drinking horn and picked up one of the last two pieces of mushroom, holding it out to Bond. “I tend to treat food as an essential nuisance. I’ve never actually enjoyed eating.”

Bond leaned in, licking a light drip of oil from Q’s thumb before taking the mushroom. “There are ways to improve the experience. The act of preparation can be incredible, if done with an eye to entertainment and enjoying your company. The dining experience itself, with the proper ambience, can also be marvellous. And this part...” Bond held the horn up to Q’s lips, tipping it to encourage Q to drink. He chuckled as Q sipped and then pulled back, licking his lips again.

“Traditional restaurants provide silverware,” Q answered, holding up the last piece of mushroom for Bond to take. “Though I can’t say I mind the lack.”

“I wasn’t talking about traditional restaurants,” Bond said with a smirk before he took the last mushroom. “I take it that means you don’t like to cook, then.”

“I keep dead mice in my freezer. I’m not entirely certain I can be _trusted_ to cook.” Q set down his plate and licked his fingers clean with an absent, innocent expression. “I’m very good at ordering takeaway.”

“Even people like us can cook, Q,” Bond said, watching Q’s hands, tempted to take them in his own. “Experimentation with blowtorches and rocket fuel and Twitter-activated frying pans may be unusual, but not inherently bad. Particularly if it has the effect of making the dining experience more pleasant. Even if it means eating takeaway beside the charred and inedible remains of a roast — at least we’d be laughing over the noodles.”

“Perhaps.” Q gave a little shrug, his smile flickering. He leaned over and set the plate on the floor in front of the shared pillow. “I’ll give it consideration. I try to be productive with my time — or at least to pursue my interests. I’m not accustomed to thinking in terms of ‘we’. It’s caused difficulties in the past.”

Bond swallowed, looking down at the plate. He absolutely wasn’t one who could even idly encourage that sort of trust — no matter how much he wanted to. “I understand,” he said lightly, watching for the reappearance of the chefs. “But if you change your mind, I’m very handy with a blowtorch and beef. And I promise not to use an antifreeze marinade.”

 

~~~

 

Having no idea what to say or do in a social situation was nothing new for Q. Usually, he mimicked the behaviour of others around him. This time, though, he was at a loss. The three other couples were just that — couples — and James _seemed_ to be pushing in that direction, though there was something tenuous about it, like a thin sheet of ice over a pond, just waiting to shatter under Q’s feet. Was Q mistakenly reading some deeper meaning behind James’ teasing, affectionate actions and the dissonance of his too-casual words? Without asking, Q had no way to tell.

Part of the problem was the lack of safe topics of conversation. Q didn’t speak of his past, and he didn’t actually _do_ anything for a living, so the default options were out of the question. He couldn’t ask James questions about his job, for obvious reasons, and asking about his childhood seemed too intimate for ‘just friends’, especially in this situation.

The first course was followed by a similar second course of charred vegetables — again, served without silverware. Somewhat at a loss, Q decided it was safest to just follow James’ lead and enjoy the experience without expectations.

The third course was what looked like half of a barbecued rabbit, crusted in pepper and herbs. It was served with a small bowl for the bones.

Q, who’d ended up with the plate again, gave James a questioning look. He was accustomed to feeding his carnivorous pets, and he doubted James would take issue, but it was best not to assume. That seemed to be the general rule with James, in fact, because Q’s unreliable, untrained instincts were trying to tell him that there was actual _interest_ sparking between them, rather than the predictable, meaningless physical response caused by their intimate surroundings.

“I wonder if it was farm-raised, or if it was caught right here in the park?” James mused, eyeing the rabbit. “I wouldn’t be surprised if it were the latter, with these people. Not that I have a preference, of course.” He gave Q the drinking horn to free his hands. He pulled a skinny thigh free from the rabbit and held it up speculatively. He nibbled at the meat and chewed before nodding approvingly. “Not bad.”

Trapped with his hands full, Q wasn’t about to ask for his own taste. Instead, he glanced around the tent — now quite warm, though the oil lamps were burning down, leaving the interior dim. “And in keeping with the theme of the night,” he said, wondering if the other diners were getting an illicit, criminal thrill of playing at trespassing and poaching wild game. The thought amused him, even if he couldn’t share the feeling. This was the tour-guide version of urban exploration, after all.

“I wonder if the community support officers are paid in money or food to leave us alone?” James asked before stripping off the rest of the meat in a quick bite. He dropped the bone into the bowl and pulled another piece off the rabbit, this time offering it to Q. “It’s a bit spicy,” he warned.

“I never considered paying them off in food,” Q said, tearing a sliver of meat free from the bone. It didn’t work as well as he’d hoped, leaving him licking at the piece of crusted, peppery herbs and thinking there had to be a better way to do this.

He was about to propose that they trade off, with James eating his fill while Q held the plate and then switching, before James murmured, “Sorry,” and took the piece back. He stripped the meat off with an efficient pull of his fingers, leaving him holding a small, messy bit of meat and spices, which he held up to Q’s mouth.

There was no neat way to bite without touching. He ducked his head to hide his face as he took James’ fingers into his mouth, licking to catch as much of the rabbit as he could. James let out a low breath, holding still until Q had licked his fingers mostly clean. Realising what he was doing, Q stopped and backed away, meeting James’ eyes for a moment.

There was no mistaking James’ gaze as anything but lustful as he watched Q. He leaned closer, breathing heavily, eyes moving between Q’s eyes and his mouth, until he was mere millimetres away. “Q...” he said quietly, before brushing his lips, slightly greasy from the food, over Q’s own.

Q’s hands tightened around the plate and drinking horn. For one brief, glorious instant, he pressed into the kiss, tongue darting out to touch James’ lips, before common sense crashed down on him. “James,” he protested in a tight whisper, though he couldn’t pull away. “You don’t want — You don’t need to do —”

But apparently James was done hesitating. He caught Q’s mouth with his own again, silencing his protests. The plate was caught between them, but James ignored it in favour of winding a hand through Q’s hair and pulling him closer. It wasn’t quite the slow, sensual kiss from the hackerspace — there was an almost desperate edge to it that left them both gasping when it was over. James didn’t pull away as he caught his breath, but kept their foreheads tipped together, hand still tight in Q’s hair.

“Stop bloody protesting unless you don’t actually want me,” James said in a rough almost-whisper.

Q considered pointing out that it was _James_ who didn’t want _him_ , but apparently he’d miscalculated somewhere along the line, and the temptation of another kiss was too strong for him to ignore. So for once he kept quiet, and instead leaned forward, trying to seize control with a kiss of his own. If James suddenly wanted him, that was fine. That was absolutely fucking fantastic. And Q was going to take advantage of it before he changed his mind again.

The spike of irritation made him bite at James’ lip. When he opened his mouth, perhaps to protest, Q licked inside, over his tongue and teeth, refusing to cede one breath until he’d satisfied every last curiosity. James was as good at taking as he was giving, though it wasn’t so much a battle for dominance as a dance. He pressed forward to kiss without crushing, nipped back without hurting, and kept his hand in Q’s hair without tugging or pulling. When Q would pull back for a breath, James would give him only a moment before chasing him, exploring Q’s mouth without reserve.

Finally, Q remembered their surroundings. He backed up with a whispered, “James,” and looked down, trying to catch his breath. He told himself not to compare — not to even think about Alec — because comparing was wrong and thinking about Alec would lead to unreasonable, unnecessary guilt. Alec was fine with this. Q was fine with this. Apparently James was, too. And Q wasn’t about to let anything get in the way like last time.

 

~~~

 

Bond spent the rest of the dinner actively trying to avoid thinking about anything but the food, the setting, and Q. He wasn’t entirely successful, of course — he still had brief moments of panic, of questioning, of feeling absurd for caving in to temptation like this. But then he would kiss Q, or Q would kiss him, and he’d let it pass in the face of getting lost in the feeling of someone wanting him.

And it was becoming obvious that Q really _did_ want him, absurd as the thought might be. Bond kept backing off, pulling away, trying to get some distance to examine and rationalise, only to have Q do _something_ — another kiss, an offered morsel of food, even just a smile — that would completely rob Bond of his determination. And it didn’t feel like manipulation, for once; it didn’t feel like the practised dance of two people who knew how to use sensuality and sex to get something from the other person. It felt like Q was determinedly hanging on to Bond’s attention, refusing to let him step backward instead of forward.

For his part, Bond had no idea what forward was. He knew that Alec wasn’t going to be anything but delighted, and probably smug, the bastard. But what would happen from here? Q was such a skittish man that Bond worried about the ride back to the hotel: forty minutes of silence was a long time to have second thoughts without the opportunity of physical closeness to keep them grounded in their decision.

But it wouldn’t be him, Bond decided. It wouldn’t be Bond who stepped back again, who tried to call everything off again. That would be both disingenuous and cruel. Bond wanted connection, and had an opportunity with Q that he’d never had before. Q knew him — not just as a city businessman, but as an agent of MI6. Q shared his hobbies and interests. And Bond wasn’t completely alone in this, single-handedly responsible for Q’s safety and happiness. They had Alec.

He chuckled at the thought of what Psych would say if (when) they found out.

They didn’t speak much, but this time the silence was comfortable, not tense with Q’s fear or Bond’s apprehension. Their awkward date had turned into a lover’s meal, and by the time the oil lamps had burned down and the dessert of chocolate covered wild strawberries had been served and eaten, Bond had something of a plan.

Q and Bond weren’t the only ones affected by the dark, intimate atmosphere. None of the other couples tried to socialise beyond polite farewells and thanks to Poacher and his unnamed assistant. Bond held Q back, almost in his lap, to let the others leave first.

“Torch at the ready,” he said quietly in Q’s ear as he watched the others go. “I’ll take the picks, since I have no gloves to fuss with.”

Q smirked. “I could _teach_ you to pick locks faster,” he challenged just as softly, and tugged on the scarf still wrapped around Bond’s throat. “I studied it at uni. You’re a talented amateur by comparison.”

“Indeed?” Bond replied with a raised eyebrow before leaning in to nip at Q’s bottom lip in retaliation for the teasing. “I suppose it _might_ be true, given that I prefer kicking or shooting my way in whenever possible.” He gave Q a gentle shove, then started tugging his overcoat into place.

“Were you _ever_ a civilised guest?” Q asked, twisting up to a crouch to make his way out of the makeshift tunnel, zipping his parka halfway as he went.

Bond caught Q by the hips and leaned in to press a kiss to his nape before allowing him to straighten again. “What do you think?” he asked with a low laugh that wasn’t amused as much as promising.

Q’s answering huff was unsteady. He looked up at the snowy, cloudy sky and tugged up his hood. One bare hand dipped into his open parka, emerging with a thin, battered leather case. He grinned at Bond and tossed him a small black torch. As soon as Bond caught it, Q took hold of his hand and started walking casually towards the gate, looking around.

“Are they gone?” he asked quietly.

“Poacher and his assistant aren’t, but the rest of them are,” Bond responded in the same quiet voice. “I think the other couples are a bit too afraid of the deep dark woods to do any exploring on their own.”

“Or too bloody distracted,” Q muttered, and turned, walking quickly but calmly back towards the base of the tower.

The ground storey was a squat utilitarian building at odds with the angular clay brick tower rising from its roof. Though the exterior had traces of graffiti, the wooden door looked solid. A padlocked chain ran through the old doorknob holes.

“Cover us with your coat,” Q said, kneeling down by the door. Bond opened his coat and draped one corner over Q, hiding the light of the torch. Q put the case on his leg and tugged at the leather tabs to let it fall open. Instead of a half-dozen picks and torque tools, he had twenty or more, each slotted into an individual pocket.

Bond had to hand it to Q — he was good. He used quick and efficient movements that had the lock opened in quick order. Despite what he seemed to think, he wasn’t any better than Bond or Alec, but Bond forgave him the assumption.

He took the padlock from Q and tucked it into his coat pocket for safekeeping, saying, “Nicely done.”

Grinning, Q put away his lockpicks and quietly, link-by-link, fed one end of the chain back into the door. “You don’t have any oil, do you?”

“No,” Bond said regretfully, thinking of the gun kit in his own car. He moved away from Q to inspect the hinges. “If you had said something earlier, I could have used my sleeve to mop some of the grease left over from the rabbit. There was enough left on the platter to be of use.”

Q shot him a puzzled look. “I thought you didn’t do this sort of thing.”

“Not for fun,” Bond said with a shrug. He examined the hinges to see how badly they would shriek when Q tried to open the door — they were thoroughly rusted and were sure to make a noise. “I can run back and ask for oil from Poacher if you like. Tell him it’s for a more... _fun_ purpose than breaking and entering.” He shot a wicked grin Q’s way. “They won’t question me.”

“Oh, god. No!” Q whispered, voice strangled. “Alec will probably want to try to do this” — he waved a hand towards the camouflaged tunnel — “whenever he’s back in London.”

“True. Perhaps next time they won’t even wait for Alec to ask — they’ll just offer it at the end of the meal.”

Q snatched at Bond’s sleeve. “Don’t you dare!” he insisted, trying to glare fiercely and failing miserably.

Bond laughed, imagining Q’s face gone red and blotchy at the knowing looks Poacher would give him when he came back with Alec. He gave Q a quick kiss before tugging him away from the door. “Very well then. I doubt anyone will hear it anyway.” With a smooth, practised movement, Bond lifted and pulled, ignoring the strain on his injured shoulder, trying his best to keep the weight of the door off the hinges. It swung open with only the slightest creak, and Bond let it settle again slowly before releasing it.

He shot a triumphant look at Q, who was staring at him. “You _are_ useful, aren’t you?” he murmured, slipping past Bond and into the building.

“You have no idea,” Bond replied with a smirk, casting one last look at the worn, creepy stone Victorian face on the side of building before following Q inside. He lifted again and pulled the door not-quite shut behind them. Bond wanted the warning of rusty hinges if someone were to follow behind them.

Then he turned and swept the torchlight through the interior, and he automatically caught Q’s arm to hold him still when he saw the rubble piled in the middle of the floor. He looked up to see the ceiling had collapsed beneath the tower.

“Oh, that’s a disappointment,” Q whispered, leaning against Bond as he stared up at the ruined tower. “We wouldn’t make it up safely, even if we had climbing gear.”

“There are alternatives, but none of them are discreet,” Bond said, considering. “We could scale the outside wall and climb down that way. But I’d have to get permission and call it something interesting, like a field exercise or an investigation of some kind.” He looked over Q, whose breath was fogging in the air next to him. Bond wondered if Q would be nearly as interested in his explorations if they were legal and blatant.

“Blackout night,” Q said, throwing a grin at Bond. “Whenever there’s a blackout in any borough, I get a text alert.”

Bond sighed, question answered. “You know that I’d prefer to do it my way, in the daylight. Much safer and more opportunity for seeing things clearly. But I suspect the illicit part of it is what makes you happiest.”

“It’s exploration versus tourism.” Q turned back and gently reclaimed the torch. When he turned it off, the darkness inside the ruined building was absolute. Cold breezes came in through cracked windows, but the snow obscured the light of the low-hanging moon.

Bond had a moment’s worry that the absolute lack of light might set off Q’s fears, before he remembered how enthusiastically Q had climbed down into the coal cellar. And then Q was on him, and he forgot his worries entirely under Q’s insistent, demanding kiss.

Apparently Bond wasn’t the only one with plans, he realised happily as Q pressed him into the wall. Bond had left his coat open for easier access to his gun, but Q took full advantage, sliding his hands around Bond’s waist. When his fingertips found the gun, he hesitated, but then just drew back enough to ask, “Is that secure?” as he tugged carefully on the back of Bond’s shirt.

“Obviously,” Bond said, unable to completely hide the slightly reprimanding tone of his voice. As if Bond would carry a gun in London that _wasn’t_ secure. Bond pulled him forward, pushing his own cold hands under Q’s parka. “You’re not armed, are you?” he said with a grin.

Q tugged Bond’s shirt up and made him hiss in surprise as cold fingers touched the small of his back. “I don’t like guns.”

“And you’re dating not one, but two Double O’s,” Bond said with a shake of his head.

Q went still, pulling back a bit, though he didn’t let go. “Are we?” he asked quietly.

Bond pulled one hand free to stroke it through Q’s hair. “As long as you’re fully aware of the risks, and you understand what you’re getting yourself into. I don’t have the best track record, Q. I wasn’t lying about that.”

“I broke up with my last girlfriend because she wanted ‘normal’. I’m intolerant, impatient, easily distracted, and miss the most blatant social clues unless they’re spelled out for me. Literally spelled out, in print. I would be more upset finding out you’d rearranged my office than finding out how many people you and Alec have killed for England — which I already know.”

“That’s not what I’m talking about, Q,” Bond said with a sigh. He looked around, thinking that it was appropriate that this conversation take place here, in a derelict building, far enough removed from safer buildings to make the sorts of threats he was trying to convince Q of seem more real. “Yes, we’re basically assassins. But that means we have enemies. People who want to kill us.” He sighed and shook his head. “Death or worse is a very real possibility for you because of your association with me.”

Q let out a sharp breath. He let go of Bond to pull off his glasses. He carefully reached past Bond to set them on the broken windowsill nearby. Then he put his hands on Bond’s chest. “Have you changed your mind?”

Bond sighed and tipped his forehead to rest on Q’s. “I haven’t changed my mind,” he confessed.

“Then stop trying to scare me away,” Q insisted, shoving Bond back against the wall to kiss him again. His hands slid up to hold Bond’s face and he fitted their bodies together perfectly, one leg between Bond’s.

“Call it a disclaimer,” Bond offered, letting Q take control of their encounter for the moment. As much as he wanted to twist and push Q up against the wall, he wasn’t ready to take his hand from Q’s hair yet. “Just say you understand,” he insisted.

“I understand,” Q insisted, moving to kiss along Bond’s jaw. “More than you know, I understand.”

Bond nodded, and though he didn’t feel relief, exactly, a knot in his chest loosened just a little. Q did actually know what it was like to be in danger, so the thought that Bond could put him in that position (again) wasn’t an abstract one. He didn’t bother to hide his relief as he relaxed at Q’s consent.

“Thank you,” he said quietly.


	12. Chapter 12

**Thursday, 31 January 2013**

Snow gave way to almost a week of straight rain — a week punctuated with moments of nervous elation as Q thought about what he was doing. He struggled to find a balance between casual and committed, but he knew that would work for only so long before his resolve broke.

A week ago, before the ice skating date, Q had thought Alec just a bit delusional for insisting that James was suited for a relationship. Now, he couldn’t believe that he’d missed the signs that were now so obvious. James’ warm sense of humour and intellect were buried under the bleak expectation that whatever could go wrong, would. And as James relaxed, Q caught the first glimpses of something more under his defences.

Now, though, Q sat anxiously in the passenger seat of his Land Rover, throwing glances at the airport terminal, thinking perhaps he should’ve taken James up on the offer to wait at home. At _his_ home, not the hotel that was no one’s home. He could’ve been coding or playing with the ferrets or doing anything but waiting with one boyfriend to pick up the other one at one of the busiest airports in the world.

They’d just come from home, where Q had insisted they stop before coming to the airport. He’d fed the ferrets and picked up a rucksack he’d packed a couple of days ago. Q assumed Alec would be tired, possibly even injured, and would want to go straight back to the hotel to rest. Thinking of what sat in the rucksack at his feet, Q felt a little guilty. This wasn’t a good time to spring this on Alec and James, but really, was there a good time?

“You seem anxious,” James said, reaching over to rest a gentle hand on Q’s knee. “I’m sure he’s fine. If he weren’t, he would have said something and we’d be going to Medical instead of home.”

Q didn’t try to lie. Even if he could, he wouldn’t, but James had an almost supernatural talent for detecting even a hint of deception. So he gave a tense smile, covered James’ hand with his own, and pointed out, “Neither of you has a rational understanding of what ‘fine’ means when it comes to personal health.”

“You’ll just have to adjust your definition, I suppose,” James said with a chuckle, turning his hand to lace his fingers through Q’s. “I’m sure Alec hasn’t lost any limbs or suffered any other horrifying permanent damage. There might be a new scar or two. Or a small gunshot — probably —”

“If you say ‘a flesh wound’, I _will_ hit you,” Q threatened.

James’ laugh was bright and uninhibited. “I don’t doubt it.”

James’ mobile alerted him just a moment later. “There he is,” he said, and let go of Q’s hand to reach for the door. Then he paused and looked back, offering, “If you’d rather stay in the truck, that’s fine.”

Q shook his head and got out, shrugging and rolling his shoulders to ease the tension. He didn’t particularly like airports, true, but he’d wanted to stay in the truck to enjoy James’ company without a crowd surrounding them. The promise of seeing Alec was enough to get him out now. They left short stay parking and went to the terminal. Q looked around — he hadn’t been here for years — but James knew precisely where they were going, and soon Q spotted Alec through the crowd.

He looked unharmed, and a knot of tension in Q’s chest eased. He smiled tentatively, hoping that Alec wouldn’t be upset to see him here, because Alec had asked James to pick him up, rather than Q — and that he wouldn’t be upset to see Q with James.

Alec’s grin when he spotted James was genuine and easy. Then he met Q’s eyes, and surprise flickered across his expression before the grin turned smug. “Bastard,” James muttered, fighting a smile of his own.

“I heard that,” Alec accused as he walked over, throwing an arm around each of them and bullying his way between them. He pulled them towards the doors. “No luggage, so let’s go. Has he been good to you, or do I need to push him under a shuttle?” he added to Q.

Feeling just a little overwhelmed, Q said, “I wouldn’t do that to all the commuters. Besides, we’d be trapped in the carpark.”

“And I can think of at least a dozen ways to make you not mind that at all,” Alec offered.

“Who says romance is dead?” James said cheerfully. He walked easily beside Alec, grinning. “How was Tel Aviv?”

Alec’s answer was a nonverbal look that had nuances Q couldn’t read. James could, and his smile faded for a moment. But then Alec grinned, clapped them both on the backs, and asked, “What else did I miss? Did you get James’ head out of his arse, or did he do it on his own?” he added to Q.

Q smiled slyly. “Thank you for the lovely dinner date,” he said, glancing past Alec to James.

“Indeed. Choosing a restaurant with no silverware and conveniently placed ruins was a nice touch.” James reached over and punched Alec lightly in the shoulder.

“I’m the strategist,” Alec said, pointedly slipping behind Q, putting him in the middle. To Q, he added, “James is better with tactics, but he always loses sight of the big picture. Gets distracted by the explosions.”

“So I’ve noticed,” Q said, suddenly grinning. There was no tension between them — they were still friends, and their banter included Q, rather than locking him out.

He made it to the truck in a contented daze, where Alec and James broke into an argument — first over which of them would drive, then which of them was the better driver, and finally which of them would get to sit with Q in the backseat. Knowing that he could easily be overwhelmed by the two of them working together, Q settled matters by sliding past them both and into the driver’s seat.

They didn’t notice until he started the engine.

They broke out into delighted laughter at about the same time, and James looked at Q with something that looked very much like admiration. “Further proof that he can handle both of us quite efficiently. And to think about how endlessly you complained about carrying that bench grinder.”

“I’m leaving in five seconds,” Q interrupted before they could start in on each other.

Alec took the expedient route, pulling open the door behind the driver’s seat. He was inside and seated before James made it around the front of the truck to the passenger side. True to his threat, Q pulled out of the spot before James’ door was fully closed.

“Look at that. He’s got you well-trained, James,” Alec said, leaning forward to snake one hand around Q’s headrest to brush at his hair. The touch made Q shiver.

“Well, to be fair, that’s not all that difficult.” James turned back to look at Alec, and his look became a little bit more serious. “Between the Navy and MI6, I’m rather used to it, which I suspect Q has used to his advantage. Clever hacker that he is.” James ruffled his hair affectionately.

Q ducked half-heartedly and slammed the brakes, jostling both of his unbelted passengers. He gave James an innocent look until James, muttering, put on his seatbelt; then he gave Alec the same look in the rearview mirror.

When Alec sighed and sat back to put on his own seatbelt, Q reminded them, “You were _both_ in the Navy before —”

“Wait,” Alec interrupted sharply over the click of his seatbelt. He said something in quick, fluid Russian; all Q understood was James’ name.

“I didn’t tell him anything,” James said in English before he switched to Russian.

Q listened to them for a few minutes, thinking he was going to need to take a couple of weeks to learn Russian. Quite soon, in fact.

Then he hid his smile, deciding that he wouldn’t actually tell them. It would be interesting to see how long it took for them to realise he understood.

 

~~~

 

Bond let the hotel room door slam behind him as he followed Alec and Q into the entryway. He was surprised at how relaxed he felt, despite the knowledge that something had gone wrong in Tel Aviv. Or, perhaps something had gone right, and he and Alec were about to be sent to Afghanistan.

Bond didn’t have anything in particular against Afghanistan, though American troop withdrawals made work on the ground a good deal more difficult than it had been in almost ten years. He just hoped they both didn’t get sent at the same time — which was a very, _very_ odd feeling. Suddenly the safe feeling he’d get with Alec watching his back had turned into wariness at the thought of Q being left alone.

But he couldn’t ask Alec yet. Despite Q’s knowledge of their employer, it didn’t change the fact that he didn’t have any sort of security clearance whatsoever. Bond wouldn’t even take the chance to discuss it in Russian. He’d have to wait.

Or perhaps, he thought, once they’d had the obvious conversation about Q, Bond would leave Q and Alec to dinner and go into the office. He was surprisingly fine with that scenario — his usual possessiveness was subsumed by the knowledge that between him and Alec, they could probably keep Q safe.

Q put his rucksack down at his feet and took off the parka he wore for rain as well as snow. “Before you —” was as far as he got before Alec was on him, pulling him up to his toes for a kiss.

Wryly, Bond rescued the parka before it fell from Q’s hand.

Only when Q’s body sagged against Alec’s in a way Bond recognised did Alec actually let him go. “Sorry, you were saying?” Alec asked innocently.

“Before _either of you_ tries anything else,” Q said threateningly, “I want to speak with you. Both of you.” He glanced at James, then back at Alec, making certain they both understood. Then he picked up his rucksack, went to one of the armchairs, and sat down.

Alec pulled off the leather jacket he wore when traveling. He gave it a shake, scattering water droplets over the foyer, and hung it over the doorknob to dry. Bond tossed his overcoat and Q’s parka over the stools by the breakfast bar.

“Mind if I get a drink first?” Alec asked. When Q shook his head, he offered, “Anything? Either of you?”

“Yes, please,” Bond said, watching Q curiously. Normally he’d assume that Q wanted to talk about their relationship, setting boundaries or something of the sort. But the rucksack made him think otherwise.

“Q?”

“Whatever you’re having,” Q said, distracted. The rucksack was built to carry a laptop, but instead of a computer, Q took out a long file folder. The fan-folds on the sides were expanded to over two inches thick, and the elastic band holding the flap closed looked old.

Alec brought over three glasses of cold vodka from the freezer — his preferred post-mission drink. He set them down, eyeing the file folder curiously. Alec handed out the drinks, shot Bond a subtly questioning look, and said, “To making this work,” first in Russian, and then in English.

Bond toasted, then sat down on one of the stools, waiting. “If that’s full of schedules and pie charts and graphs, I’m afraid I’m going to need more vodka,” he said with a smirk.

Q let out a scathing huff. He put down his glass, picked up the envelope, and asked, “As if I’d use paper? Give me some credit, James. Sit, both of you. You take up too much room standing.”

Alec laughed and sat on one end of the couch, facing Q. Only Bond knew him well enough to hear the slight hint of tension in his laugh. “What is it, then?” he asked as Bond came to sit beside him.

Q worked the elastic band over the side and opened the flap. The documents inside looked old and yellowed. “My name was Harrison Kinlan. I changed it a few years ago, to better hide.” He slid the papers out of the envelope. Though his hand was steady, he was avoiding looking at Bond and Alec. He leaned over to set the papers between them. “For almost nine years, I had bodyguards. My codename was Quartermaster, which is why I go by Q now.”

“Codename?” Bond asked, hiding his surprise. He’d expected Q had some sort of government work under his belt during the years he disappeared. But Q was implying something a lot more serious — and a lot more structured — than he seemed the type to put up with.

And _god_ did Bond hope it was government work. If Q was about to come clean as being part of anything darker, he didn’t know how he would handle it.

“I was —” Q hesitated. He turned over the stack of pages, and Bond saw the slightest tremor in his hands. “There was an incident when I was nine. My parents hired a security firm for our protection. When I graduated Cambridge, I did some contracting work for them. Government contracts.”

Bond nodded, not reacting at all to Q’s alluding to an ‘incident.’ “Which security firm?”

“Spectre Limited. I eventually handled all of their IT security and weapons upgrades.”

“Spectre,” Alec repeated, shooting a look at Bond. “They were bought out —”

“Six years ago,” Bond finished. “By Quantum Global Dynamics.” Which was, of course, tied to the organisation that had first come to light seven years ago, having infiltrated the highest reaches of MI6.

Q nodded, still not looking up. Bond could have thought he was hiding something, except he was certain that Q was absolutely incapable of deceit. That or he was a more brilliant actor than either he or Alec knew.

“They made me an offer, but it was too high-profile. Too corporate. I liked the small-company feel of Spectre. And since I didn’t need the money... I decided to disappear,” Q said more quietly, taking another drink of his vodka. Unlike Bond and Alec, he hadn’t finished his in one swallow.

Bond saved Alec the trouble of getting up for more vodka, claiming the task for himself. “Has Quantum threatened you? Make contact with you at all since you refused their offer?”

Q blinked up in surprise. “QGD? No... I mean, I keep watch on them, but they haven’t tried to find me at all.”

His casual tone sent a chill through Bond. Did Q _really_ not understand the extent of Quantum’s criminal machinations? MI6’s best hackers and comms specialists were tasked with tracking down all the subtle little branches, but Quantum’s decentralised structure had turned the organisation into the mythical hydra: Cut off one head and seven more grew in its place.

“Keep watch,” Bond huffed as he poured both Alec and himself another drink. “How much do you know about them?”

Q stopped fussing with the papers and shook his head, looking between Alec and Bond as if surprised to see how worried they both were. “They’re almost a zaibatsu — a venture capital conglomerate involved in all sorts of businesses. Everything from defence and security to green energy and space exploration.”

“Venture capital,” Bond said with a chuckle, casting a disbelieving look in Alec’s direction.

“So, you could get us a list of, say, the board of directors?” Alec asked casually.

Q blinked. “Of course... What?” he asked, frowning. “They’re not a public corporation. You can’t invest.”

“We’re not interested in investing,” Bond assured him. “But that list would be very interesting to look at. They’ve been on our radar before.”

“Our — MI6?” he asked, sitting up in surprise. He sounded genuinely baffled. “QGD?”

“Easy,” Alec said soothingly. “We can keep you safe.”

Q stared at him, and then gave a little shake of his head. “No, it’s — If they’re — I _almost_ considered their offer,” he said tightly. “They offered me my own division. They wanted me to do satellite work.”

“I’m very glad you didn’t,” Bond said, walking to stand next Q. He settled what he hoped was a comforting hand on his shoulder, giving a light squeeze. “It was very wise of you to drop off the radar after you said no.” He gestured at the paperwork with his glass and raised his eyebrow. “What’s this?”

Q looked down at the papers as if he’d forgotten about them. “The — My records. What happened. My history,” he said, rattled.

“You don’t need to show us this,” Alec said, leaning across the coffee table to put a hand on Q’s leg.

Q shook his head and gave up trying to sort through the papers. He leaned back, pushing his hair out of his eyes. “It’s fine. It’s only fair. I know about you.”

“Q, you don’t owe us anything,” Bond said. “Your curiosity is one of the things that drew us to you to begin with. I for one expected nothing less.” He looked at the files but didn’t take them.

“It explains...” Q shook his head and stood. He picked up his glass, finished the contents, and said, “It explains everything,” before he went to the kitchen.

Alec looked questioningly up at Bond.

Bond sighed. “Well, if not for curiosity’s sake, then for Q’s safety.” He finished his second drink and sat on the edge of the couch. “Shall we?”

Grimly, Alec nodded, and they began to divide up the paperwork.

 

~~~

 

MI6’s Technical Services Section had barely scratched the surface. Q had hardcopies, he explained, because he’d gone into as many electronic files as possible and deleted or altered his own records. What he couldn’t erase, he changed, making himself less remarkable — though Bond doubted anyone would believe that. The ‘Next Tony Stark’ publicity article had been instigated by Spectre’s marketing director, and was Q’s biggest regret.

“For a while, I was constantly recognised,” he had explained somewhere between his second and fourth drink. “It’s why... the hair and the glasses.”

Some of the documents, Bond and Alec were able to put aside at once. But Q had also kept hardcopies of his projects at Spectre as well as the communications and job offers from Quantum Global Dynamics.

As they neared the end of the papers, Alec muttered, in soft Russian, “We can use this.”

“Yes, we can. But how do we do it without bringing Q into it? Anything we bring to TSS means that not only will Q come on MI6’s radar, he’ll probably get back on Quantum’s as well,” Bond responded, equally quietly, in English. It wasn’t that he didn’t want to use the information. But he sure as hell wasn’t going to sacrifice Q in another mad goose chase.

“What?” Q asked abruptly. “Quantum isn’t the problem. Really. It’s — it’s stupid and irrational, but after what happened —”

“Quantum _is_ the problem,” Bond interrupted, wondering how Q could have missed the truth hidden behind the corporate front.

“We want them, Q,” Alec said immediately. “We can scrub the information. Or use it ourselves.” His green eyes went hard and cold as he met Bond’s gaze. “Who says we have to bring everything through MI-bloody-Six, anyway?”

Bond’s hatred of Quantum was personal — something that he knew compromised his professionalism and judgement, not that he gave a damn. And Alec’s was just as personal, not for his own sake but because _he’d_ been the one to pick up the pieces after Bond had fallen in love with Vesper, only to be betrayed. That had been the start of the whole damned mess. Neither of them was capable of being entirely rational about this, especially not now, knowing that Q — _their Q_ — had nearly fallen into Quantum’s trap.

And then a tiny voice whispered in the back of Bond’s mind, he might _be_ a trap, or at least the bait. They’d done it once with Vesper, after all.

“Alec,” Bond started, setting his drink down just long enough to rub at his temples. He shook his head and picked his drink back up, finishing it in. “You know we can’t do this on our own. Even if we kept MI6 out of it, they’d know we were doing _something_. We’re going to have to come up with a cover story of some kind.”

“Yes, because we’ve never done _that_ before,” Alec said dryly. He got to his feet and went to where Q was sitting across the room, by the breakfast bar.

Q looked up at him warily, and Bond was struck by how very _fragile_ he looked. How _guilty_. “I couldn’t think of any other way to keep safe,” he said quietly.

Alec hesitated, watching Q warily. “What —”

“The files.”

Bond stared at Q for a long moment before it finally occurred to him why Q was nervous. Guilty. “Tampering with government records to help hide yourself from people who might threaten you isn’t something we’re worried about in the slightest,” Bond offered reassuringly. “As long as you’re not protecting Quantum, I don’t care. Do you, Alec?”

With a relieved sigh, Alec crossed the last two feet to where Q sat. A tug pulled Q off the stool and into Alec’s arms. “If I didn’t think you’ve already done a better job, I’d offer to have TSS erase your bloody records myself,” he said softly. “You did the right thing. You followed your instincts.”

Q’s answering laugh was shaky and faint. “Unlike _some_ people here, I actually _have_ survival instincts,” he muttered into Alec’s chest.

“Oi. I’m not the one who’s died twice, like James has,” Alec protested.

“You’re both idiots,” Q accused. He pulled free enough to look over at Bond and asked, “You’re really not upset? Or going to get in trouble?”

Bond was extraordinarily relieved that Alec was here — for as much as he wanted to believe Q, for as much as he wanted to believe the shaky breath and the vulnerability, Bond just... couldn’t. He couldn’t pull Q into his arms and offer comfort.

Q had gone through Bond’s and Alec’s MI6 files, but only the ones that were easily available. If he’d seen everything, he wouldn’t be asking about Quantum. Q didn’t know about Quantum, which meant he didn’t know about Vesper.

Or did he? It all felt just a little too familiar, from the carefully cultivated trust to the vulnerability to the damn hair colour. It was just too much. Too convenient.

As much as Bond knew his body language had changed, his gaze had gone slightly colder, there was absolutely nothing he could do about it. “We’re not upset, and we’re not going to get in trouble — because we’re not going to tell anyone.” His gaze flicked to Alec briefly before he looked back at Q. “But I need you to do me a favour. Stay out of MI6 servers.”

Q tensed, though he didn’t look away from Bond as he nodded slightly. “I had to know. I couldn’t take the risk. Between what I know and my money...” He trailed off. “That’s why — What happened when I was nine. And I inherited what they had —”

“We know,” Alec interrupted, pulling Q close again. His tone of voice was as soothing as the hand that petted Q’s hair, though the look he shot Bond was sharp and questioning. It melted into open, innocent caring and concern as Alec stepped back to meet Q’s eyes. “Is there anything else you want to talk about?”

Q took a deep breath and shook his head. “No. And you just came back. I wanted to get this out of the way. I’m sorry.”

“For what? Not leaving him” — Alec gestured back at Bond — “to meet me alone at the airport? Or for suggesting you should leave so I can get rest?”

“Don’t you have to report back?” Q asked.

Alec barked out a genuine laugh. “I didn’t blow up anything too important, so it can wait. I’d like to think I have better things to do,” he suggested, running his hands down Q’s body. “Starting with a shower, hm?”

Q smiled a little weakly, looking up into Alec’s eyes. “Well, I wouldn’t argue. Travel —”

“Perfect. Back later, James,” Alec interrupted, turning Q towards the bathroom. Behind Q’s back, he gestured with one hand, motioning as though taking a photo and pointing at the stack of papers on the coffee table.

Bond nodded, then refilled his glass as Alec and Q walked away. There were over a hundred pages in the file — Bond hoped Alec made the shower a long one. He pulled out his phone and stared at it for a long moment before he headed to the kitchenette again. Tucked away in the top right cupboard was a plastic bin full of bits and pieces of various useful electronics. He needed to make sure MI6 didn’t have any idea that something was amiss — at least, not yet. And while Bond had a laptop, he hadn’t bothered to replace his digital camera or scanner yet. That left only the phone camera, and he wasn’t willing to bet Q’s life on its being unmonitored by TSS.

It was only a matter of moments to pull the SIM card from the phone and replace it with an unregistered chip. Without connectivity, he could take the photos, store them temporarily on the unregistered chip, and transfer them to the computer without anyone being the wiser.

Without allowing himself to think anymore about whether or not Q was a traitor, Bond focused on the task at hand.


	13. Chapter 13

**Friday, 1 February 2013**

Q stepped out of the otherwise empty bedroom and stared, finding the room had got itself turned around during the night. The kitchen was on the right, not the left, and the windows were wrong.

He twisted and looked back over his shoulder at the bed.

 _Alec_ , he thought, and felt himself smile. Alec was back home, which was why everything was reversed in his head. The bedrooms were on opposite sides of the suite.

Mystery solved, he dragged himself to the kitchenette, where he knew there was one of those awful little hotel coffee pots. He took the carafe from the heating plate and stared at the residue of coffee in it. Someone else had made coffee, but _he_ was always the one who made coffee in the mornings. And Alec had just left, hadn’t he? Q could _almost_ remember Alec waking him enough for a sleepy kiss and a promise to call later.

God, he hated mornings.

“Allow me,” a smooth voice said from somewhere next to him, and someone took the coffee pot out of his hand. “I could use a cup myself.”

He turned and saw James, and flinched guiltily away. “Oh. Um. I was —” he began, but stopped himself when he remembered this wasn’t _cheating_. This was all right. Entirely acceptable. Expected, even.

Bloody fucking awkward at... whatever the hell time it was.

“What time?” he asked, studying James with a bit more focus. It looked like he was wearing the same clothes as last night. “Is it last night?”

“No, thus the need for coffee,” James said with what almost sounded like amusement — _almost_ , if not for the dry, tense edge that Q wasn’t quite familiar with. “It’s about nine, I think,” James continued as moved to the sink to rinse and refill the pot.

“Nine? _Which_ nine?” he asked, thinking that seemed terribly important. If it was morning, then James hadn’t slept, which was bad. And if it wasn’t, then Q was confused, and that was equally bad.

“Oh-nine-hundred on February first,” James clarified. He tipped his head towards the breakfast bar. “Sit. I’ll make you something to eat. I know you’re not at your best in the morning.”

“February. _February?_ ” Q asked. He turned and awkwardly kicked at the cupboard doors below to boost himself up onto the counter. “It was January.” He was _positive_ it had been January. Then a little sliver of last night came back to him, and he asked, “Oh, god. That was vodka, wasn’t it?”

“Yes, it was,” James said with a chuckle as he busied himself measuring and pouring grounds into the filter. “Don’t worry. The more time you spend with Alec, the more tolerance to it you’ll develop.” He snapped the filter into place, poured the water into the reservoir, and replaced the pot. Then he stood staring at the pot for a long moment before he flipped the switch and turned back to Q.

“Not in combination with mornings,” Q said, rubbing at his eyes. “One or the other. Not both.” He put his hands down and looked at James. If it really was morning and he hadn’t slept, then there was a reason. It was probably Q’s fault. _Why_ had he gone with Alec last night? Of course, if he’d gone with James, then it would be Alec here, and James... wherever Alec had gone. Which didn’t quite parse correctly.

No. It would be Alec who’d stayed up all night, because of Q.

“Are you angry with me?” he asked worriedly.

“Of course not,” James said with a smile. “You’ve done very well, Q. I’m impressed with you, and your outer perimeter security measures. Toast and eggs? There may be some protein around here somewhere. Sausage or bacon, maybe.” He turned to the fridge and started pulling out ingredients.

“I really don’t want sex with both of you _at the same time_ ,” Q explained. He leaned back — or tried to. His head connected solidly with the upper cabinets, and he let out a startled, “Ow!”

James looked up from his rooting around in the fridge to frown at Q. “Are you all right?’ He pulled the flannel from next to the stove, filled it with ice from the freezer and brought it over to Q. He affectionately brushed a hand through Q’s hair before applying the ice. “You should be more careful,” he said quietly. He brought Q’s hand up to hold the ice in place, covering it with his own for a moment before turning back to the fridge.

“You’re still awake.” Q found it safer to lean forward, away from the cabinets. He rested his free elbow on his knee to prop up his head, making it easier to hold the ice in place. “Why?”

“I felt it prudent to thoroughly familiarise myself with your files,” James said while he cracked eggs into a bowl. “I don’t think your fears about Quantum are unfounded, and I want to make sure I know everything relevant.”

Quantum. He shuddered a bit and said, “I don’t _need_ money. I’d like a proper lab, but I don’t want _people_ in it. And I want a sand flea.”

“A sand flea?” James stopped cracking eggs long enough to stare at Q. “How many hours ago did you stop drinking?”

“It has a jumping mechanism. Almost ten metres vertical. Forward distance travelled determined by angle of launch. Self-orienting while in midair. Only because it doesn’t have an ‘up’, you can’t mount anything on it, except maybe explosives.” He smiled faintly, remembering the videos he’d seen. If only Boston weren’t so bloody far — another _continent_ — he’d go see it live. “I’m positive they’d let me in, if I could get there. Do they still have ships? For people?”

“A yacht would probably be your best alternative, though it would take a bloody long time. Of course, both Alec and I are pilots. If your problem truly is mistrust of a pilot rather than flying itself, perhaps one of us could, uh, borrow a jet for you.” James smiled crookedly at Q, though it was just as tense and reserved as his earlier smile. He looked back down at what he was doing, and started to whisk the eggs with a fork.

“You’re upset.” Q felt a twinge of nervousness, but he couldn’t determine _why_. He needed caffeine. He needed to wake up. He wondered if James would find it odd if he stuck his head under the tap. The bathroom was currently too far away.

“At the prospect of borrowing a jet? Not in the slightest. I’ve done much worse in the name of pleasing a lover,” James said with a chuckle. “Sausage or bacon?”

Q stared at him, trying to figure out what was going on — what he was missing — but he had no idea. Something in his chest went tight as he predicted exactly what would happen. James wouldn’t tell him but would expect him to know, and Q wouldn’t ever be able to guess, which would make James accuse him of insensitivity or not caring enough, and there would be irrational, emotional shouting.

He dropped the ice on the counter and slid down unsteadily. There was no point in staying for the whole movie when he already knew the ending. Things had been fine — wonderful, really — while Alec was gone, and now they weren’t again, which was exactly what had happened down in the tunnels. Alec might be fine with sharing, but James obviously wasn’t.

Really, they shouldn’t have even tried. It was a ridiculous idea from the very beginning. He went for the bathroom, thinking that this was a hotel, which meant there’d be at least three coffee shops within a few hundred metres of the entrance. He could wake up enough to go find coffee, then go back home after he’d reached the minimum safe caffeine threshold for driving.

When Q finally emerged from the bathroom, James called over from the kitchen, “As soon as you have enough caffeine in your system, I need to talk to you about something. Will you let me know when you’re feeling up for it?”

“It’s fine,” Q snapped, suddenly wanting nothing more than to go back to bed, with Alec. Who wasn’t here, damn him. “We can just be friends. I’ll see you at Nova Prospekt. I’ve done this all before, James. I really would rather not go through it again.”

James sighed and poured them each a cup of coffee. He brought them to the coffee table and set one down in front of the armchair where Q had been sitting last night. Then he set down his own cup and returned to the kitchen.

“That’s not what I want to talk to you about.” He looked up at Q only for a moment before piling a plate with scrambled eggs, sausages, and toast.

He didn’t want to. With everything that was in him, he didn’t want to. He could handle almost anything, short of flying and being shot at and being locked up —

Fear spiked through him, chasing away the fatigue in a sudden rush of adrenaline. If James _wasn’t_ breaking up with him again — which he didn’t actually believe — then did he know something? Had he found out something last night? Was there some new danger Q didn’t know about?

James carried the plate and a fork back to the coffee table. Q’s file was still spread out, only now there were little wire scorpions everywhere — evidence of James’ nervous habit. Never looking away from Q, James sat down and sipped his coffee, expression indecipherable. “You’re afraid. Why?”

"Did you find something?” Q asked, glancing at the files. He swallowed, trying to remind himself that no one was after him.

“The newest information I have is what I learned from reading your files last night.” James set his cup down and leaned forward, icy blue eyes locked mercilessly on Q’s. “But here is what I need to know. Are you telling me _everything_? Absolutely everything? Have you left anything out? The smallest details might be important.” He paused, and took a deep breath. “And if you’re being blackmailed or otherwise forced, it’s best you tell me now. I can only help if I know everything.”

The fear crumbled away into confusion that Q could only guess was his usual morning fog returning, though that made no sense. No, _James_ made no sense. And he was angry. Angry at Q, probably armed, _and_ making no sense.

Well. There was the fear again.

Q resisted the urge to run, telling himself it was a remnant biological imperative and not actually the _intelligent_ thing to do. He wanted to call Alec, only he didn’t actually know where his mobile was, or if Alec would even answer. He’d said he couldn’t take calls at work, but that had been before, when he thought Q believed he worked for a corporation and not the government. And there was no one else he could call, which meant he’d have to deal with James himself.

If he survived this, he might well kill James. Possibly Alec, too, for getting him into this mess in the first place.

“No one’s blackmailing me,” Q said, choosing his words with more care than he usually used for microsoldering. If he stuck to absolute truth, there was a better chance of not setting off whatever had James so irrationally angry. He couldn’t say he wasn’t being forced, because this conversation certainly wasn’t his choice, and he had no idea what memories might be lurking in his subconscious, waiting to come out, so he couldn’t admit to telling James ‘everything’. Really, he should know better than to deal in absolutes that were impossible to quantify.

“It just strikes me as incredibly convenient,” James continued, still watching Q. “An independently wealthy genius arrives in London and opens one of the best hackerspaces in London. Then my house burns down, tools are lost, and where do I go? Nova Prospekt, of course.” James’ expression shifted into something more raw, something that Q could almost call misery — but it was gone before Q had a chance to fully parse it. “And you. You’re just perfect for me. _And_ for Alec. Beautiful and intelligent and vulnerable. So we fall for you. And then this.” He waved at the pile of papers on the coffee table and ran a hand through his hair. “Nothing too concrete to be suspicious, but enough to catch my attention. Enough to make me feel like you’ve practically dropped Quantum in my lap.”

Q listened and processed and tried to look at everything from James’ point of view. Put that way, it all seemed perfectly logical.

“All right,” he said numbly. Ignoring the coffee, Q started for Alec’s bedroom.

“Please, Q,” James said quietly, brokenly. “I just... I need to know.”

“But you won’t _believe_ ,” Q said as he went to the bedroom. Alec’s bedroom. He looked at the mussed bed and tried to figure out where his shirt and shoes were. His parka was by the breakfast bar. Everything else was replaceable. “No matter what I say, I can’t refute your logic, because I can’t prove what I’m _not_ , and I refuse to attempt to invoke some sort of emotional escape clause.” He spotted his shirt on the floor by the bed. He picked it up and pulled it on, dislodging his glasses. He fumbled them out the bottom of the shirt, smudged fingerprints across the lenses, and put them on anyway, though he hated when his lenses weren’t clean.

James took a shaky breath. “Quantum is perhaps the world’s largest and most dangerous terrorist organisation, Q. They are single-handedly responsible for so many crimes, I cannot even begin to describe the death toll. And they are so damn invisible that we can’t even mention their name in our internal files for fear of revealing our hand.”

Q thought about that as he sat down on the edge of the bed to put on his shoes over bare feet. If Quantum was the same thing as Quantum Global Dynamics — and he wasn’t _entirely_ convinced of that — then it made sense that they’d want him. Someone with his skills would be incredibly useful to a criminal organisation. Not to mention someone with his money.

He stamped his feet to settle the shoes in place. Then he got back up, looking at the bed. Alec probably wouldn’t call him, so there was no point in leaving a note. Q had no illusions about which of them was more important to Alec; James would always come first.

He walked back out into the living room, where James was staring desolately into his coffee cup. The files were still spread out on the coffee table. He was tempted to take them, but suddenly he didn’t want them. He’d kept them on legal advice, but all they’d done was hurt him: the experience, the memories, and now this.

“Alec is going to kill me for this,” James said, leaning forward to stare at the carpet and run his hands through his hair. “I wasn’t going to say anything, but I just can’t do it again. All I want, Q, is for you to sit down and promise me that you’re not working for them. And that you’ll let us keep you safe.” He looked up at Q, desperation and pleading naked on his face. “Please.”

Q flinched and looked away as he went to get his parka. “First, you weren’t good for me. Now, I’m a... a terrorist. I can’t imagine what’s next, but for once, I’d prefer to leave the mystery unsolved.” He put on the parka and thought about his scarf. He knew it was in the tiny wardrobe by the door because he’d teased James about not having a scarf of his own and made him wear it. He couldn’t bring himself to get it, though.

“I never said you were a terrorist, Q. I asked — _asked_ — if you were being manipulated by them. The last person who betrayed me for them, the one I quit MI6 for, wasn’t a terrorist either. It wouldn’t be very responsible of me if I didn’t ask,” James called quietly after him. “And it hasn’t escaped my attention that you didn’t actually answer the question, other than to assure me you’re not being blackmailed.”

Q turned back, leaving the parka unzipped for now. “Either I tell you I’m not and you believe me, despite having no proof, or you don’t believe me, _because_ there’s no proof. So no. I’m not being manipulated or blackmailed by them or anyone else. I’m not working for them or anyone at all. And the only people I’m helping are my hackers. But you have no _reason_ to believe any of that, do you?”

Tiredly, James stood. “Yes, I do. Because I think I know you well enough to know you’re a terrible liar. I didn’t want an airtight, logical argument — or proof. I just wanted reassurance of something I already knew.” He took in Q’s shoes and parka, frowning. “I’ll go. You should drink more coffee before you drive.”

After a moment, Q shook his head. He felt awful, but James looked to be in worse shape. Besides, he didn’t think he could stay here — not knowing that Alec would choose James, and rightly so. They’d been friends over half their lives.

So he pulled open the door, finding it easier to breathe when he turned away from James. “It’s all right if Alec doesn’t call,” he said, proud that his voice was almost perfectly steady. “Tell him I understand.”


	14. Chapter 14

**Friday, 1 February 2013**

Four people knew Q lived above the Nova Prospekt hackerspace and cafe: the cafe owner, Mr Siegel; Sapphire, the night barista; Alec Trevelyan; and James Bond. Mr Siegel was ancient and went home by six every night, Sapphire would still be running the cafe, and Alec and James had no reason to be knocking on his door at eight.

Q hadn’t yet installed any security upgrades — not even a wireless camera outside the door. He hesitated, still spooked from that morning’s discussion about Quantum and terrorists and secret agents who might or might not think he was a traitor and who at the very least had heard his own admission that he’d altered government records.

Shit.

He hesitated in the hallway outside his office and then crossed into his bedroom to get a shirt. He wasn’t in the mood to face any of his four potential visitors half-naked. So he pulled on a ripped jumper that was thick and warm and a reminder of more pleasant days. Chell had been sleeping under it; she chittered sleepily at him and climbed up his chest and onto his shoulder as he walked barefoot to the foyer.

For the first time in his life, he wished he had a gun.

A second knock made him jump, almost dislodging Chell. Then he heard a deep, familiar voice call, “Q!”

 _Alec_ , he thought, closing his eyes for a moment. It couldn't be James, who he could at least try to ignore. It had to be his maybe-boyfriend, probably come to break up with him in person. He considered ignoring it anyway before thinking that it was both rude and probably impossible to keep Alec out if he _really_ wanted to come in.

So he unlocked the door and opened it, backing away when Alec pushed the door open more than a crack. He was gorgeously dressed in a navy pinstripe suit, hair tamed neatly back, with the sharp line of his jaw softened by dark blond five o’clock shadow. When Alec touched Q’s face with his fingertips, Q couldn’t keep from flinching back.

Alec sighed and deliberately traced Q’s cheekbone with one thumb. “Do you want me to go?”

Q closed his eyes, trying not to lean into Alec’s hand. “I haven’t had a very good day.” That was an understatement. Q couldn’t remember a _worse_ day for years. “I told him —”

Alec’s thumb moved to touch Q’s lips, silencing him. “I’m not here to talk about James. I’m not even here to talk about Quantum or MI6, except to tell you that I’ve been in the military or military intelligence, in one form or another, since I was eighteen. I’m very good at killing people, and being irrationally paranoid has sometimes been the only thing that kept me from dying. I’m complete rubbish at relationships that go longer than six hours. And I’m sorry.”

“What about James?”

“He sent me here. He said you’d need company.” Alec brushed his hand back into Q’s hair, careful not to upset Chell. “Was he right?”

“Doesn’t he?”

Alec grimaced. “I think it’s better to leave him alone. When he’s in —” He shook his head. “He doesn’t want company.”

Q felt an entirely unjustified pang at the thought of James being alone. It shouldn’t matter. He shouldn’t care, but a part of him did. At this very moment a week ago, he’d been ice skating in the park, wondering if James would find someone else and leave him alone.

“Do you want me to go?” Alec asked gently.

“No.” Q shook his head and hesitantly stepped closer. Alec pulled him into a careful hug and bent to kiss the side of his face. Chell climbed up the sleeve of Alec’s heavy wool coat and nosed under the lapel. “Will James be all right?”

Alec sighed. His arms tightened around Q. “Mostly. He’s — he’s complicated. But I’m here to be with _you_ , if you’ll let me stay.”

Q considered sending him back to be with James, but the thought of being alone for even another minute made him go cold. He nodded, pressing his face to Alec’s shoulder, breathing in the smell of damp wool. “Stay. Please.”

 

~~~

 

Q came awake abruptly to a hand covering his mouth, holding him down. He thrashed, fighting blankets twisted around his limbs, and felt the weight of a heavy body press down against him, to his right.

“Stay. Be quiet,” a familiar voice whispered.

 _Alec_.

Q nodded, unreasoning panic holding him paralysed. But instead of doing — Q had no idea what he was afraid of, but instead of doing _anything_ , Alec let go and rolled off the other side of the bed. Despite the near-complete darkness, he moved silently and swiftly across the room. The nightlight in the hallway, kept on to avoid any ferret accidents in the night, showed his silhouette against the door for a moment. The flat had creaky old floors, but Q couldn’t hear a thing.

Then the door creaked open, and Gordon hopped in, a bulky low ghost that scampered across to the duvet, climbed up, and ran right for Q. Heart pounding, Q caught Gordon and rolled onto his side, eyes glued to the doorway. What the hell was going on? What had Alec heard?

Alec’s shadow reappeared. “Watch your eyes,” he warned, entering more slowly, and this time, Q could actually hear his footsteps. He went to the bedside table and leaned down to switch on the light; Q closed his eyes, wincing as light burned through his eyelids.

Silently, Alec sat down on the edge of the bed and turned. He set down a white file covered with security and secrecy warnings. Then Alec twisted and moved across the bed, leaning over Q’s body to pick up his glasses from Q’s bedside table.

“Did... you bring this with you?” Q asked as he propped up on one elbow. He put on his glasses and blinked against the momentary disorientation as the world came into focus. Objecting to the constant shifts, Gordon dove under the blankets and wormed his way down to Q’s feet.

“You don’t have this,” Alec said worriedly, looking down at the file. “You don’t even know it exists.”

“Oh, hell,” Q muttered. “Alec, you know I’m rubbish at lying. If anyone asks, I’ll —”

“They won’t.” Alec got back under the blankets and rolled onto his side to face Q. “That’s James’ file.”

“What?” Q looked up at him, surprised. “Why?”

Alec shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never even seen _my_ file. I’ve no idea what’s in his — or how he got it.”

Q looked back down at it, turning the words over in his mind. He must not have been asleep for very long, because he wasn’t nearly as fuzzy as he might have been.

“You didn’t bring it,” Q said, meeting Alec’s eyes. “Did James call you?”

“I heard a noise. He was waiting at the door.” Alec took a deep breath. “He handed this to me and left. I assume it’s for you.”

“Why?” Q shook his head, curling up on his side again. “What does he want?”

“I don’t know.” Alec inched closer so he could comb his fingers through Q’s hair. “I don’t think he knows, either. He’s even worse at relationships than I am.”

Q managed a weak smile. “You’re not horrid — at least no more than I am.”

Alec laughed softly. “And he’s worse than both of us, probably because he actually _tried_ , once.”

“What? That makes no sense.”

“Q... I’ve never fallen in love. I’m loyal. I’d die for England or James, no matter how much of an arse he’s been. And I’d die to protect you. But I wouldn’t know love if it kicked me in the balls, so I’ve never tried. James did, and it _did_ kick him. So he’s had a taste of it, only he’s scared of it.”

Q huffed. “I can’t picture James being scared of _anything_.”

Alec didn’t answer immediately. He frowned and pushed back up onto his elbow so he could reach for the file. He flipped it open, disregarding all of the security warnings, and started flipping through the pages.

As he did, his expression went cold and neutral — a bad sign. At the end of the file, he flipped it closed and laid down on his back, looking up at the ceiling. “Or you could just read it yourself,” he said softly.

“I’m not even close to having the clearance.”

“Bugger clearance.” Alec turned his head to look sadly at Q. “That’s it, in there. That’s everything.”

“Everything?”

“His fucking heart.”

 

~~~

 

**Saturday, 2 February 2013**

Bond sipped at his scotch and closed his eyes, letting himself sink lower in the tub. He had no _idea_ what he’d been thinking today, from start to finish. Or yesterday. It was well past midnight, probably nearly dawn. He’d been awake for close to forty-eight hours.

A forty-eight hours he’d been, unsuccessfully, trying to erase in a haze of hot water and alcohol.

Q.

Quantum.

Convenient.

 _Stop_.

Alec.

Information.

Targets.

Q.

_Stop!_

Quantum.

Q.

Convenient.

Vesper.

**_Stop!_ **

Bond took a shuddering breath and slipped under the surface, opening his eyes to stare at the ceiling tiles. It was a familiar but not comforting sight, seeing the world through the distortion of water. It was ridiculous that he’d ended up here again, trying to tease out reality from deception. Trying to divorce emotion from fact.

And the hell of it was, he decided as he finished yet another glass... The hell of it was that he wasn’t sure he actually gave a damn any more. As far as he could tell, he had three options.

Kill Q — which had the advantage of ending any dissonance. And it had the advantage of effectively ending Bond; if Alec didn’t kill him, Bond was certain his soul wouldn’t survive.

Love Q — regardless of doubt or suspicion. Then he would either fall into Quantum’s trap, or he wouldn’t. It wasn’t his ego that cared; it was his sense of self-preservation. Or, what little there was left of it. If he were betrayed again, there would be nothing left. He wouldn’t even be useful to M anymore. And if it worked out, if there was no trap... Bond shook his head and reached for what turned out to be an empty bottle.

Of course, there was one more option. Walk away. Leave the whole mess in Alec’s capable hands. Then Bond would bear no responsibility for what eventually happened to Q. Bond would help Alec, of course, but he could refuse to take part in any actual decision. He could be the blunt instrument M had shaped him to be.

Bond let the glass in his hand drop to the floor, where it shattered with a satisfying explosion of shards.

Not that he hadn’t already done his part to remove the decision from his own hands.

If he were being honest with himself, he _knew_ that Q wasn’t a trap from Quantum. They were good, but he couldn’t imagine that they were _that_ good. There were too many little things that were nearly impossible to manufacture — too many details. And Q was a terrible liar.

That was why Bond had left the file. Whether Q understood or not, it was a mark of trust — every dark secret, every horrible fact, every bloody twist of the knife left open for Q to see. It was part explanation, part test. He would read it and see how Bond couldn’t possibly have had any other response to Q’s admission than the one he’d had. And then Q would read it again and see what Bond _really_ was.

The water was starting to get cold, but Bond couldn’t bring himself to get out of the tub yet — and not just because he’d probably fall and break his neck in his currently impressive state of inebriation and exhaustion. Or he’d just step in the broken glass and bleed out. So for right now, for this one blissful moment, all the decisions were out of his hands. He just wanted to lay there and let it be.

He heard the outer door and wondered if he was going to scare the hell out of the maid. Then he heard Alec call, “Clear!” as they often did when coming home at odd hours to avoid a violent greeting.

“Evening,” he called back, not quite yelling. He kicked the water, letting it splash over the edges a bit, to alert Alec to the fact the he was in the tub.

Not that it helped. A few seconds later, the bathroom door opened and Alec walked in. “Get out. This single-bathroom living has got to end, James. Buy us a bloody house already.” He picked up the empty scotch bottle and set it on the counter.

“Watch the glass,” he warned. “And get me another bottle, will you?”

“Get out of the damned tub and get it yourself. Unless you cut an artery and are just bleeding out very slowly, in which case you’ll wreck the carpet.” Alec leaned against the counter, watching him expectantly.

Bond cupped a handful of water and lifted it, letting it drip back into the tub. “Not pink. We’re good.”

“You’re going to make me drag your sorry arse out of there, aren’t you?”

“I saw a house in Kensington that was nice. Two bathrooms, new windows, garage for the cars and your motorcycle. Do you think we’re the type who could actually _live_ in Kensington, though?” Bond looked back up at the ceiling. “Don’t they have grass to mow, gardens to maintain, that sort of thing?”

“We’re assassins, James. We’ll get minions.” Alec narrowed his eyes and pushed away from the counter. “You’re just going to lie there, aren’t you? Right, then. If this is how you’re going to be.”

“At least bring me another bloody drink, then, if you’re so eager to be moving about,” Bond said. It was only fair that if one of them had energy, he should put it to good use.

“Bugger off,” Alec answered cheerfully. He walked out of the bathroom, leaving the door open.

Bond stared at the door, weighing his options. He _could_ just let himself fall asleep in the tub, which, Bond decided, didn’t seem wise. Alec might be pissed enough at him to actually let him drown.

The option was becoming less and less attractive the faster the water cooled, and _fuck it_ , Bond decided. He was out of scotch. That was good a enough reason to get out of the tub.

Not bothering to pull the plug, having decided that the coordination required for bending over while not slipping on the wet floor was probably beyond him at the moment, Bond rose slowly and clambered out of the tub. He managed to avoid the glass on the floor in the trip to get a towel. He wrapped it tightly around his waist and walked out to the kitchenette.

“Want something?” he called out to Alec as he pulled down a second bottle of scotch.

“No, thank you.”

 _That’s not Alec_.

Bond turned and stared in surprise at the couch — or, more accurately, Q on the couch. He squinted despite knowing he wasn’t _quite_ drunk enough yet to be hallucinating the floppy-haired genius.

“Oh,” he said stupidly. Then he turned back to find another glass. “Don’t go in the bathroom without shoes,” he warned Q.

He heard the couch creak softly but didn’t turn — nor did he turn as he heard footsteps approach. “Are you in any condition to talk, or will you forget it by the time you wake?” Q asked gently.

“I don’t think I’m capable of being blackout drunk,” Bond said somewhat regretfully. “Far more likely I’ll just fall asleep mid-conversation.” He poured himself another drink, then slammed it back before turning to Q, watching as he walked closer. Try as he might, however, he couldn’t meet Q’s gaze yet.

Silently, Q took hold of Bond’s wrist and pulled the glass out of his hand. He set it on the counter and brushed his fingers down to Bond’s. Then, as he moved past Bond’s fingertips, he turned his hand over. Bond couldn’t decide if it was his heart or his lungs that had suddenly decided to quit working, but he couldn’t do anything but stare at Q’s hand on his. If Bond wasn’t careful, he’d fool himself into thinking this might be forgiveness.

Moving carefully, as if wary of spooking Bond, Q curled his fingers around Bond’s hand. He lifted his other hand, fingers sliding over the back of Bond’s neck, and pulled him close with gentle pressure.

Bond had absolutely no power to resist this. Manipulation or not, it didn’t matter anymore... Bond let himself lean forward to rest his head on Q’s shoulder, freeing his wrist from Q’s hand just long enough to wrap both arms around Q’s waist. He took in a shuddering breath before it occurred to him that he was still wet from the tub. He wanted to apologise to Q, to pull away to, to do something other than be foolishly emotional, but he couldn’t. He was just too fucking tired to want anything but _this_.

Q held him without reservation, turning just enough to press a kiss to his ear. “I’m so sorry, James,” he whispered.

Bond shook his head. “No. You didn’t do anything wrong.” Any minute now, he’d step back. Apologise for hurting Q. For being too bloody broken to be worthy of anyone like Q. _Any minute now._

But Q held him trapped against the counter, and though Bond could have picked him up and moved him with ease, he didn’t. And Q stayed in his arms, holding him just as tightly. “I’m sorry you were hurt, and I’m sorry I didn’t understand. I’m sorry I don’t know what else to say. I’m not very good at this.”

“I’m certain those are meant to be my words, Q,” Bond said with a sigh. “What a pair. But for what it’s worth, I never _really_ thought you were a trap. I just... I didn’t... I couldn’t...” Bond shook his head and released Q to lean back. He stared at the wet spot on Q’s shoulder, trying to figure out if it was from his hair or something else, and turned back to the counter to wipe at his face just in case. “Drink?” he asked again.

Q leaned around him to shove the glass away. “No.” He touched Bond’s face. “Have you slept?”

Bond laughed. “Not tired,” he said, placing his hands on the counter and looking down. “Perhaps I should look at houses. Alec is getting tired of sharing a bathroom.”

“Mmm.” Q deliberately took hold of Bond’s hand and stepped away. “James... Come with me.”

Q could have been dragging Bond to a firing squad and he would have gone willingly. He spared a glance towards Alec’s bedroom, thinking he should probably say something. Alec was lurking in the doorway, still wearing yesterday’s suit, jacket off, holster on. But looking at Alec’s expectant, wary expression, Bond couldn’t think of a single damn thing he should say.

“I’ll reschedule the estate agent,” was the brilliant response he managed.

“Idiot,” Alec said softly, shaking his head. A faint smile tugged at his mouth.

“You’re hardly any better,” Q accused just as gently, giving Alec a look over his shoulder. Then he brought Bond into the other bedroom and let go of his hand. “Bed, James.”

Bond sat heavily on the edge of the bed, looking down at his hands. “Did you see a picture of her?” he asked quietly.

Q nodded, touching Bond’s abdomen firmly enough not to tickle. He untucked the towel but didn’t open it. “Under the covers. You’ll be warmer.”

“Even your hair colour.”

“James.” Q tugged at the duvet.

“You need help?” Alec asked softly from the doorway.

Instead of answering, Q turned to Bond. “Do I?”

“Not eye colour, though,” Bond said, lying back and closing his eyes. “Just hair colour. You don’t dye yours, do you?”

“I did for a little while, until I grew it out. I felt safer with my appearance changed.” Q moved up the bed to pull the covers up over Bond. When he had them tucked over Bond’s shoulders, he didn’t leave; he just turned to fold one leg up onto the mattress and leaned against the headboard, one hand gently combing through Bond’s hair. “I was scared of being recognised.”

“You’re very smart,” Bond said with satisfaction. “Tell me it wasn’t peroxide. If it was, I think I’d like to see a photograph.” Bond smiled, trying to imagine it. Q with white hair, black eyebrows, brilliant green eyes. “Piercings and leather,” he decided.

Q made a strangled noise. “Is he always like this when he’s sleep-deprived?”

“The drinking just makes him more creative,” Alec answered. “Coffee?”

“Tea?” Q asked.

“Coming up. Keep him there.”

With his free hand, Q touched Bond’s face. “I’m staying. Will you sleep, James?”

“As you’ve probably noticed by now, I’m not very good at sleeping,” Bond said, opening his eyes to look at Q. “I’ve managed to stay awake when you’re in my bed to keep you from...” _Nightmares._ Too fucking juvenile, he scolded himself. “Go sleep with Alec. I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Don’t be an idiot. I’ll just have Alec hold you down until you sleep, if necessary.” Q moved his hands to brush over Bond’s eyelashes, making him close his eyes by reflex.

Bond couldn’t but laugh at that. “One of us wouldn’t survive that, Q,” he said, feeling exhaustion sweep over him. He curled on his side, letting his forehead rest by Q’s knee. “Though that would have the pleasant effect of making things far less confusing for you.”

“I’m fully capable of keeping both of you in line,” Q threatened. “Now sleep, James. For me.”

“For you,” Bond repeated. “Will I see you? Maybe tomorrow? So I can apologise coherently for accusing you of being Vesper?” Bond stiffened at breaking his own rule, saying her name for the first time in seven years. It stung every bit as much as he knew it would. “Fuck.”

Q shifted and twisted enough to press his lips to Bond’s temple. “I’m not going anywhere, James. I promise. I’ll be right here whenever you wake up.”

Bond heard Alec sigh, followed by soft footsteps on carpet. “We both will be, you bloody idiot,” Alec added.

“I _am_ an idiot,” Bond acknowledged. “I’m sorry.” He reached out to rest his hand on Q’s leg, and took a deep breath. He wanted to tell Q to leave, that he had flashbacks, that he wasn’t safe. He wanted to apologise, or maybe yell at Q for being an idiot for allowing him to apologise. All things considered, he decided, it was probably best to keep his mouth shut and let unconsciousness take him. “I’m sorry,” he said again instead, wrapping an arm around Q’s legs.

Q let him. Despite everything, Q inched closer, slouched down, and shifted to let Bond use his leg as a pillow. “Sleep,” he said quietly, petting Bond’s hair.


	15. Chapter 15

**Saturday, 2 February 2013**

The strains of a familiar song intruded on Bond’s consciousness, slowly dragging him awake. He listened to the high, sweet female vocals, followed by a male singer who was almost... snarky. Frowning, he lifted his head enough to realise that he’d been sleeping on _someone_ rather than on a proper pillow, which was why his neck ached.

He blinked and saw what looked at first like a cartoon playing on the telly against the far wall. Turning, he saw Q smiling down at him.

“Feel better?” Q asked.

Bond blinked, trying to remember what in the hell happened yesterday. He twisted under the covers, ready to escape out the opposite side of the bed, only to find Alec blocking his exit.

“What...” he started quietly, scrubbing at his eyes. Last he knew, Q hated him and Alec was too angry to speak with him. Now they were both sitting up in bed with him, watching _The Nightmare Before Christmas_? “How much do I need to apologise for?”

“I’ll make a list,” Alec offered.

“Alec,” Q scolded. He contorted awkwardly so he could press a kiss to Bond’s forehead. “Do you want some tea? Dinner?”

“He probably hasn’t eaten for two fucking days,” Alec observed.

“It’s dinner time?” Bond asked with surprise. He remembered dropping off the file, the bath... Q holding him. “How about a drink,” he muttered, turning to Alec. It would have been easier to shove Q out of the way, but he didn’t particularly want to. Alec, on the other hand, Bond wouldn’t mind dropping onto the carpet at all.

But Q caught hold of his shoulder and pulled him back down. “No more tonight,” he scolded. “Alec, would you mind room service?”

“Sod that. I’ll get takeaway. Chinese?” Alec asked, ignoring Bond.

“That’d be fine.”

Alec got up off the bed. At some point, he’d changed into jeans and his old white jumper. “If he tries to move, break his fingers. He needs those to cause trouble.”

Q huffed and just inched closer to Bond, touching his face. “Stay with me?”

“You don’t have to do this, Q. I’m fine,” Bond said wearily. “I just thought you should know. What did you say earlier? Fair’s fair?”

“Not that I recall,” Q said with a soft laugh. “I haven’t watched you sleep all day only to abandon you when you’re finally awake. You can get up to use the loo, but you’re not having any more scotch. And _no one_ is having vodka,” he added with a little shudder.

“How about rum?” Bond asked with a faint chuckle. He slid out of the bed, heading for the closet. He didn’t particularly mind being naked — modesty was not something any career soldier could maintain — but he would feel better prepared to face whatever conversation Alec and Q had planned for him dressed in _something_. He pulled on a pair of pants, followed by a pair of his most comfortable jeans. “I’ll be right back.”

To his surprise and dismay, Q insisted on following him, though as soon as Bond went for the bathroom, Q went to the kitchen. Bond heard him rummaging in the cupboards.

“I don’t need an intervention,” Bond muttered as he pulled his toothbrush out. Before he could find the toothpaste, however, he caught a look at himself in the mirror. The sight was thoroughly depressing. He needed a shower and a shave. He didn’t tend to grow facial hair too quickly, but after three days of not shaving, he looked like a vagabond. His eyes were puffy and baggy from too much drink and not enough sleep. His complexion even looked sallow, causing his far-too-numerous scars to stand out grotesquely on his skin.

“I don’t need an intervention,” he said again, then bent over the counter in a fit of self-deprecating laughter.

He’d take a shower, brush his teeth, apologise to Q and Alec, and call M. She’d send him on whatever the most dangerous mission in the world was, and it would be fine.

It would be fine.

 

~~~

 

Q’s hands shook as he stirred too much sugar into his tea. It was one thing to convince a sleep-fogged, half-drunk James that they could make this relationship work; it was something else entirely to deal with a rested, sharp-edged, self-destructive idiot who was fully prepared to draw back into his shell and hide.

Why couldn’t he have fallen for someone a little more stable? Not that Alec was any better. He just hid his more damaging psychological traits under his charisma and wit.

Two of them. Two of them was probably too much for anyone to manage, much less someone as socially inexperienced as Q. But then, he’d raised two ferrets and had trained one beautifully. Surely he could take hope from a fifty percent success rate.

The thought of the ferrets reminded him that he probably wasn’t going to make it home tonight. He checked the time and sent a quick text to Sapphire, who worked at the cafe on Saturday nights because of good tips. She had a key to his flat, and she wasn’t afraid to handle the dead mice in the freezer.

As Sapphire texted back a confirmation, James came out of the bathroom, showered, shaved, and looking much better. Q smiled, relieved that he hadn’t had to go in there after him. Alec had spent a half hour in there earlier that afternoon sweeping up all the broken glass.

James smiled back tentatively at Q, then made his way over to the coffee pot. He went through the process of making coffee silently, measuring the grounds and filling the reserve with water. “Would you like some?” he asked, casting a quick look at Q before reaching up for a coffee mug. “I’m afraid I left the milk out yesterday morning, so there isn’t any. But I do have sugar.”

“Alec picked up milk this afternoon, when he brought in lunch.” Q holstered his mobile and walked the two steps to James. He told himself to be firm — to not accept another instinctive rejection from James — but he faltered at the last moment. “Sapphire’s going to feed the ferrets, so I can stay tonight, if you don’t mind.”

“I don’t need an intervention, Q,” James said, staring at the coffee pot.

Q tried to curb his temper, though it showed in his sharp exhale. “So I shouldn’t —” He turned and walked away from the kitchen, surprised at how much this all hurt. Still.

He was brilliant with computers, electronics, anything mechanical — and he was absolute rubbish with people. With his last girlfriend, he hadn’t cared enough. Now, he’d gone the other way. He cared _too much_ , and there was no bloody reason for it.

He took a deep breath and stared at the half-open door to Alec’s bedroom. “I am not going to be the only one fighting for us,” he said quietly.

James walked quietly towards him, stopping halfway between the coffee pot and Q. “Is that what you’re doing?” he asked, his tone quietly surprised. “I’d thought that after you saw what I am, why I am the way I am, you wouldn’t want to have anything to do with me. You’re the —”

Uncharacteristic anger flared through him, hot and bright. He turned, demanding, “No, James. I sat in your damned bed all day _because I was bored_. What in hell do you think I’m doing? What have I _been_ doing this whole bloody time if _not_ fighting for us?”

James didn’t say anything, didn’t move even as the coffee finished its brewing cycle. “I...” He closed his eyes and gave a little shake of his head. “I’m sorry.” He took the last few steps to Q and reached out to hug him.

Q caught his wrists. “No. I’m not doing this anymore, James. Decide if you want” — _me_ , he thought, and tensed even more — “this, or if I should just leave.”

James nodded, looking at Q’s hands on his wrists. “I do want this, Q. I have, more or less, since the day I helped you pull coal from that hole in the floor at Nova Prospekt. I’m just not very skilled at holding onto the things I care about. I fail, every damn time.”

“You don’t have to hold onto me,” Q snapped, letting go as his own words hit home. “You just have to stop walking away — or driving me away.”

James let his hands drop to his sides. He looked up at Q, meeting his gaze steadily. “All right,” he said calmly. “That’s fair.”

Q took a deep breath, honestly a bit surprised at James’ acquiescence. “Are we going to have this discussion again tomorrow and the day after?”

James shrugged and turned back to the coffee pot. “I’m done fighting with myself. I’d much rather be killing other people.” He gave Q a crooked grin as he turned to the fridge to pull out the milk, but he stopped at Q’s expression. “What?”

All his life, Q had developed a fine instinct for avoiding confrontation. He was very good at escaping and hiding in comfortable solitude. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d actually _wanted_ conflict. No, not wanted. Possibly _needed_. Because he’d never actually felt such a strong urge to hit someone as he did at that moment.

“I have no expectations of emotional commitment,” he said icily, “but I _would_ like to know if killing people is higher or lower than me on your list of preferences.”

James stared at him, his expression darkening. “I am offering you _everything_ , Q. My heart, my soul... hell, I practically cut myself open for you, giving you that fucking file.” He stopped and took a deep breath. “Emotional commitment is the _only_ thing I have left to give you. There _is_ nothing else.”

Q backed away, startled, wondering when everything had changed. “Are you —” he began, but he faltered before he could even think of anything like ‘love’. James’ emotions seemed to range between coldly distant and playfully affectionate, but no more than that. Understandable, since the one woman he’d ever loved had betrayed him.

Then, as he thought of the file and of James’ reaction yesterday morning, he realised _why_ James had given him that file. It wasn’t an apology or even an explanation, though both of those things masked James’ actual intent.

Terribly aware that he could be wrong — that he had no way of knowing the truth — he walked towards James, trying to read his expression. James was watching Q, but he didn’t seem tense or ready to take any sort of action whatsoever. He looked... expectant and wary.

Q stopped a foot away from him. He resisted the urge to reach out and instead said, “I don’t do _people_ , James. Things other people would immediately grasp... I need them clearly outlined. Please, just tell me what you’re” — he stumbled on the word ‘feeling’ — “thinking.”

“Q,” James said, looking down. “I’ve only done this once before, and it didn’t work out. So I’m no expert. In fact, you could probably say I’m truly terrible at it. But I’m tired of being nothing more than a blunt instrument. I want something more. Something that’s for _me_ , for once.”

James’ tone of voice stopped Q’s breath. He couldn’t remember ever hearing anything so _sincere_ before. So tentative and yet blunt, so anxious and yet so very courageous.

James leaned back against the counter, muscles contracting under his bare shoulders as he continued, “And it’s not that I’m saying I’ve earned you, because I haven’t. The opposite, in fact.” He looked back up at Q, expression raw. “At this point, I almost wouldn’t care if you _were_ bloody fucking Quantum, if it meant I could come home to you anyway.”

Q nodded, swallowing past the lump in his throat. “Yes. All right,” he said tightly, pulling James into his arms. James hesitated for only the briefest second before returning the embrace, one hand tangling in Q’s hair and the other around his waist. Q took a deep, shaky breath and closed his eyes. “Yes.”

“Not that I’m saying I don’t want to share,” James added quietly, words hot against Q’s neck. “I feel better knowing that Alec is there for you, too.”

“You’re not... jealous?” Q asked hesitantly. It had been James’ idea, this arrangement between the three of them, but that didn’t mean things hadn’t changed. And Q _didn’t_ want to give up Alec. Which sounded greedy and unfaithful and _wrong_ , but he couldn’t bear the thought of having to choose between them.

“No, I’m not jealous. Knowing what I know now, about you and Quantum? I’m bloody grateful that there are two of us who want nothing more in the world than to keep you safe.” James held Q a little tighter, and kissed his neck. “We _are_ going to keep you safe.”

Q nodded, pausing only long enough to pull off his glasses before he buried his face against James’ shoulder. “You don’t have to keep me safe. Just stay with me,” he said as the door unlocked.

“I’ll do my best,” James promised before straightening to watch Alec walk through the door. “Though I can bloody well assure you that Alec and I are going to fix your security. Aren’t we Alec?”

Q looked up a bit nervously, still half-expecting jealousy or anger, but all he saw was relief.

“Assuming you’ve got your head out of your arse and I don’t have to throw you off the balcony,” Alec said. “Of course, if I _do_ , that’s more fortune cookies for us. Q?”

“If it means you’re _both_ done being idiots, I’ll give up fortune cookies for life,” Q said, staying in James’ arms as he turned and held out one hand to Alec.

“Are we retiring from MI6, then?” Alec asked, slowly grinning. He walked into the kitchen, put down two heavy paper bags, and took hold of Q’s hand.

“Not this time,” James said wearily. “Not yet, anyway.” Then he took a step back, giving Alec an odd look. “Sorry. I don’t do group hugs.”

“If I weren’t so bloody irritated with you, I’d give you no choice,” Alec said as he pulled Q off-balance and into his arms. Q heard the sound of rustling paper as James started going through the bags, but Alec was too damned tall for him to see exactly what James was doing. Quietly, Alec put his lips to Q’s ear and whispered, “Thank you.”

Q sighed and held Alec tightly. “You’re both idiots.”

Alec barked out a laugh. “You hear that, James?”

“I’m inclined to think that’s a rather kind assessment of us,” James said with a chuckle. “Sesame chicken, Alec? Unbelievable. At least you didn’t forget extra eggrolls this time. Coffee?”

“I haven’t forgotten the eggrolls since Brooklyn, and if you recall, we were being shot at. And yes, coffee. I’m the one who’s had to go out for provisions today. _Twice_.”

“For which I am exceptionally grateful,” James chuckled as he dumped out his now cold coffee. He pulled another mug from the shelf and filled both, then went for the fridge. “There are all sorts of ways to have coffee, but when in a first world country...” He pulled out the milk and grinned triumphantly. “Not that it makes up for the sesame chicken. But it’s a start.”

The last tension knotted up in Q’s chest eased, and he relaxed in Alec’s arms. Crisis averted. _Again_.

 

~~~

 

Bond watched Alec and Q eat their dinners with something that approached happiness. Not that he was ready to call it that yet, of course. Happiness was something that happened to _other_ people, _nicer_ people, people who had homes and kids and fences.

But this was close. Damn close. Bond was eating noodles and drinking coffee with his lover and his best friend, who now knew everything about him that there was to know. They both knew about every kill, every dark secret, every time he’d fallen bleeding to the ground under the weight of his own stupidity and arrogance, and they were still here. They were going to finish dinner and maybe watch a movie and it was all so disgustingly domestic that it made Bond grin like an idiot whenever he thought they weren’t looking.

Not that he thought everything was completely resolved. Bond and Alec were still MI6. And, of course, there was still the threat of Quantum, hiding in the shadows, ready to hurt and destroy.

Bond looked over at Q, who was eating neat little bites in between laughing at Alec’s jokes, and felt a sudden, overwhelming tug of protectiveness. He couldn’t lose Q. It would be the end of him, to have gambled again and lost. Whether it was setting up new security at Q’s home and hackerspace or taking down every last bit of Quantum that knew Q’s name, Bond would do everything in his power to make Q safe. He resolved to talk to Alec about it tomorrow. But for tonight, there were other important things that needed to be discussed.

“Not that I don’t love _The Nightmare Before Christmas_ , but it does lead me to ask what your taste in movies is, Q. Because I’m not sure how many musicals I can watch in a short period of time,” Bond said, stabbing at a piece of carrot with his chopsticks.

“It’s not a musical,” Q protested around the sesame chicken, which he’d claimed for himself. “It’s a cultural study of the commercialisation of Halloween and Christmas.”

“There’s singing,” Bond pointed out with a smile. “Just because _Les Miserables_ is a historical drama doesn’t mean it isn’t also a musical.”

Alec let out a choked snort. “God, I don’t know which of you is worse. We’re watching the Bourne movies next.”

“The new Expendables movie is out, isn’t it?” Bond asked curiously. “The first one was fantastic. Did you see that AA-12? Thing of beauty.”

“This is what my life is going to be, isn’t it?” Q asked. “Not that I mind explosions in movies at all, unless one of us is sleeping.”

“The Expendables and Bourne both have explosions in them,” Bond pointed out.

“ _The Cabin in the Woods_?” Q proposed, looking at them hopefully.

Alec shot a questioning look at Bond. “Horror, wasn’t it? Bad thing eats stupid teenagers?”

“No teenager movies,” Bond said firmly. He got up and went to refill his coffee mug.

“Government conspiracy, gruesome deaths, and cover-ups,” Q said, glaring at them both. “And it’s Joss Whedon. If you tell me you don’t like Joss Whedon, we’re going to have issues.”

“He’s adorable when he’s all stroppy, isn’t he?” Alec asked, slouching back in his chair and grinning at Q.

Q’s eyes narrowed. “Even with two of you, you’ll both sleep eventually.”

“And don’t forget we’re off traipsing the globe, killing people for queen and country, at least half the time. You’ll have plenty of time to watch Josh Whedon movies without us.” Bond sipped at his coffee and smirked.

Q winced. “It’s Joss — God, never mind,” he said with a sigh as he picked up his plate and joined Bond at the sink.

Alec looked at Bond, his grin softening just a bit. “I think we’ll keep this one.”

“Only if he promises not to threaten us with any more musicals,” Bond suggested. He turned to tug Q close, laying a light kiss on his hair.

“It’s _not a musical_ ,” Q protested. “You’re the one who brought up _Les Mis_. Not to mention, you’re too cowardly to watch a harmless little horror movie with me.”

“Cowardly?” Alec asked. “Are we putting up with that?”

“How do you feel about physical displays of carefully developed bench-pressing power to counteract accusations against our character?” Bond asked with quiet amusement. “I can carry you over my shoulder to the couch, just to be impressive.”

“Try it and I’ll ruin your credit rating. You and Alec will be sharing a studio flat in council housing,” Q threatened.

“You’re no fun,” Bond said with a smile.

Q turned back, arching a brow. “And what will you do for me when I prove otherwise?”

Alec let out a cough. “James, mate... the right answer here is ‘anything you bloody want’. Trust me on this one.”

Bond laughed, delighted at the fact that Alec’s suggestion didn’t bring out his possessiveness. All he could do, all he _wanted_ to do, was pull Q closer and stare into his eyes. “Anything,” he promised. “Everything, even. Well, except watch musicals.”

“One more word — one more _hint_ ,” Q said, reaching up to twist his fingers into Bond’s short-cropped hair. He found enough purchase to give a sharp tug and nipped at Bond’s lip.

Bond laughed again, delighted by Q’s sudden aggression. It occurred to him that this inner steel was one of the reasons Q hadn’t just survived, but was the reason he was _alive_. Bond got his arms around Q and hefted him up to the counter, hoping Q wouldn’t damage his credit rating just because he wanted to stand between his legs and kiss him senseless.

To his delight, Q didn’t let go of his hair. He just used his legs to pull Bond another inch closer and didn’t stop kissing. Bond heard Alec moving around and assumed he was heading for the privacy of his bedroom, until he heard Alec’s footsteps grow closer.

Not that Bond was at all interested in releasing Q to look for Alec. There had been too much tension to allow him to easily let go once he finally had Q. But the kiss slowed and ended naturally, and Bond let his forehead fall on Q’s, breathing heavily.

Alec’s plate clattered into the sink. Then he moved to Bond’s side and tapped his shoulder. As soon as Bond reluctantly drew away from Q. Alec reached past him and leaned in, meeting Q’s eyes for just a moment before pulling him into a kiss of his own. Bond wanted to turn away and give them some privacy, but Q’s legs tightened around his waist. So he watched — no, _stared_ — at the way Q’s eyes closed as he gave in to the kiss.

Bond had a sudden image, unbidden, of the things he could do while Q was kissing Alec. Then shoved it away for further consideration later, when his body wasn’t so intent on proving to his mind that Q was here with him — with _them_ — and not running away.

“Try not to damage him too much,” Alec said as he slowly released Q. “Otherwise, I’ll have to take all his damned missions as well as my own.”

Q nodded, looking from Alec to Bond and back again. “I’ll be careful.”

Alec clapped Bond’s shoulder and moved away. “And keep it down. I’m not staying up all night because of you two.”

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